THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OR 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 


A    TALE     OF    OUR     TIMES 


in  are  no:  finely  touched 
But  to  line  IMUM." 


NEW   YORK: 
OOULD,   NEWMAN,   AND  8AXTON, 

roRMIt  Of  rt'LTON  A*D  KAMAU  rrBBBT* 

B  O  S  T  O  N 1  VE8    AND    D  E  N  N  E  T  . 

1  841. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1840,  by 

GOULD,  NEWMAN,  AND  SAXTOX, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  th  e  United  States,  for 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


S.    W.    BENEDICT,    PRINT. 


TO  ALL 

WHO    ARE    CHARGED 

WITH  THE  HIGH  AND  SACRED  TRUST 

OF 

WOMAN'S    EDUCATION, 

THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME 
IS  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED. 


1732005 


'•  I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet, 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene, 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveler  betwixt  life  and  death  ; 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength  and  skill, 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort  and  command, 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright, 
With  someting  of  an  angel  light." 

WORDSWORTH. 


PREFACE. 


The  following  narrative,  the  result  of  a  few  hours 
of  leisure,  gratefully  occurring  amidst  the  pleasing 
toils  of  a  teacher's  life,  is  offered  to  the  public  with 
a  painful  sense  of  its  many  imperfections,  yet  in 
hope  that  the  claims  of  the  truths  it  is  designed 
to  illustrate  and  enforce  will  ensure  for  it  an  indul 
gent  reception. 

The  incidents  of  the  tale  are  wholly  imaginary  ; 
yet  the  author  trusts  that  they  will  be  found  to  be 
in  accordance  with  the  experience  of  the  world. 

In  the  leading  character  of  the  work  he  has 
sought  to  embody  his  own  views  of  the  excellency, 
the  dignity,  and  the  moral  power  of  the  female 
character,  elevated  by  high  intellectual  and  moral 
culture.  Conscious  that  he  has  but  feebly  dis 
charged  the  task  he  has  chosen,  he  cannot  but 
hope,  that  his  effort  may  be  the  means  of  bringing 
higher  powers  than  his  own,  to  the  illustration  and 
enforcement  of  the  same  subject. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER.  PAGE. 

I.— Evil  Tidings 9 

II.— The  Merchant  in  his  Chamber      .          24 
m.— A  Family  Scene        ....      28 
IV. — Hopes  and  Fears   ....          40 
V. — The    Announcement  —  Sorrow    and 

Consolation     .        .        .        .        .51 

VI.— A  Tr ,>po«al      ."....  60 

VII.— A  MotherYfcetter     ....      68 

VIIL— The  Proposal  Answered         .        .          78 

IX.— The  New  Home       ....      84 

X.— New  Friends-^-Good  and  Bad       .  96 

XI.— The  Country  Church         .        .        .116 

XII.— The  Sick  Chamber— New  Trials  131 

Xni.— Death 141 

XIV. — Mary  Gregory's  Letter.    Conclusion     151 


I 

' 
THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EVIL   TIDINGS. 

1  The  gift  of  strength  in  ifro  ia  thine— 
Strength  in  the  evil  day.' 

AT  a  comparatively  late  hour — for  it  was 
ten  o'clock — on  a  bleak  evening  in  February, 
a  hack  drew  up  in  front  of  a  genteel-looking 
house  in  one  of  the  more  retired  streets  of 
New  York.  In  a  few  moments  the  inmates 
were  startled  with  the  sudden  and  loud  ring 
ing  of  the  door-bell,  followed,  after  a  brief 
interval,  with  the  quick  tones  of  a  manly  voice, 
inquiring  of  the  servant, 

*  Is  Mr.  Barnwell  at  home  V 

1  He  is  at  home,  sir,  but' 

«  Ha^te  the  family  retired  ?' 

*  Not  yet  retired,  sir.' 

'  Then  say  to  Mr.  Barnwell  that  I  must  beg 


10  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  few  moment's  conversation  with  him.  Stay 
— here  is  my  card — and  mind,  add  to  it  very 
urgent  business.' 

The  servant  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  mo 
ments  returned  with  the  information  that  Mr. 
Barnwell  would  be  happy  to  see  his  visitor  in 
the  parlor. 

The  family  had  assembled  for  evening 
prayer.  A  sweet  tranquillity — an  air  of  quiet 
domestic  repose  pervaded  the  apartment  as 
the  visitor  entered  it,  welcomed  by  the  cour 
teous  advance  and  extended  hand  of  Mr. 
Barnwell,  by  whom,  with  graceful  but  fitting 
words,  he  was  announced,  for  an  introduction 
was  unnecessary,  to  the  members  of  his  fami 
ly,  as  Mr.  Jones,  of  Savannah. 

'  I  beg  pardon,  sir,'  said  the  latter,  as  he 
took  his  seat, '  for  intruding  upon  your  family 

circle  at  so  late  an  hour ;  but  my  errand' 

at  this  word  he  hesitated. 

'  Whatever  it  be,  is  worthy  of  respect  for 
bringing  you  hifher.  Say  no  more,  sir,  I 
pray.  To  you  my  house  is  open  whenever 
you  may  see  fit  to  honor  it  with  your  pre 
sence.  Perhaps  you  have  some  slight  remem 
brance  of  my  old  aversion  to  business  out  of 


11 

UK-  counting-house;  I  must  say  that  I  have 
not  much  improved  in  that  resp 

Mr.  Jones  looked  around  him  with  a  some- 
wha*  ( -\pression,  as  if  doubtful  whe 

ther  to  request  a  private  interview,  or  to  hint 
the  nature  of  his  business.  From  this  he  was 
relieve^  by  the  frank,  benignant  smile  of  Mr. 
Barn  well,  as  he  added, — 

'  I  see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  would  have 
it  between  ourseKes.  You  will  not  object  to 
joining  with  us  first  in  our  evening  exercises. 
My  daughter,  Mr.  Jones  is  no  stranger, 
though  an  unfrequent  visitor.  Will  you  pro 
ceed  with  your  reading  V 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  young 
lady  who  occupied  a  reading-stand  opposite 
to  the  centre-table,  at  which  Mr.  Barnwell 
was  sitting.  During  the  little  interval  that 
elapsed  while  she  reverently  turned  over  the 
pages  of  the  family  bible  before  her,  Mr. 
Jones  had  a  fair  opportunity  of  remarking  the 
change  which  a  few  years  fiad  made  in  her 
whom  he  had  only  known  as  a  child.  In- 
,  to  the  most  uninteivMrd  and  casual  ob- 
•  T,  there  was  something  peculiarly  prepos 
sessing  in  her  appearance.  Constance  Barn- 


12  --MERCHANT'S  DADGHTKK. 

well — just  turned  of  nineteen — was  not 
extraordinarily  beautiful,  in  the  usual  sense  of 
hat  term.  In  a  fashionable  assembly,  she 
might  have  attracted  very  little  notice.  The 
first  glance  of  the  superficial  would  have 
passed  on,  in  search  of  more  dazzling  fea 
tures  and  prominent  manner.  She  might 
have  been  neglected  by  the  crowd,  which,  on 
such  occasions,  estimates  every  thing  by  the 
degree  of  sensation  produced,  adoring  its  idols 
through  the  '  woven  illusions '  of  wax  lights, 
waltz  figures,  and  drapery.  But  in  the  quiet 
social  circle,  even  though  it  should  happen  to 
be  a  fashionable  one — and  still  more  in  her 
own  sphere,  the  little  dear  world  of  home, 
who  could  have  rivalled  her?  The  visitor 
remarked  and  felt  the  beautiful  womanly 
grace  of  her  manner,  as  with  a  look  of  blend 
ed  reverence  and  modesty,  she  slightly  press 
ed  the  open  page  before  her,  prepared  to 
impart,  in  the  tones  of  affection,  the  language 
of  the  Divine  word  to  those  she  loved  better 
than  her  own  life.  Why  was  it  that  he 
sighed — involuntarily,  but  heavily — as  the 
first  sweet  tone  melted  upon  his  ear  ?  Alas ! 
he  could  not  but  think  of  his  errand  to  that 


uniMis.  13 


lovely  family,  and  of  the  consequences  it  in 
volved.  He  had  come,  the  precursor  of  a 
greater  calamity  than  she,  perhaps,  was  able 
to  bear.  His  heart  smote  him  as  his  'eye 
lingered  upon  the  almost  angelic  vision  before 
him.  That  blue,  serene,  spiritual  eye,  too 
soft,  too  bright  for  human  tears,  must  it  be 
clondetl  with  sorrow?  That  delicate  ched^ 
how  long  ere  it  should  grow  pale  with  pre 
mature  care  ?  Those  mild  sweet  lips,  must 
they  then  quiver  with  agony  1  Was  he  to  be 
the  means  of  engraving  the  lines  of  an  anxi 
ety  hitherto  unknown,  upon  that  clear,  se 
rene  brow  ?  The  kind-hearted  Gabriel  Jones 
almost  wished  himself  back  again  in  Savan 
nah. 

The  subject  of  the  evening's  reading  was 
the  seventeenth  chapter  of  the  Gospel  of  St 
John  ;  and  Mr.  Jones,  though  not  a  religious 
man,  felt  its  sublime  tenderness  and  inimita 
ble  pathos,  as  one  by  one  its  burning  words 
of  love  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  fair  reader. 
She  ceased  —  but  Ijpr  tones  seemed  yet  to  lin 
ger  upon  the  ear,  so  gentle,  so  spirit-like,  so 
exquisitely  musical  was  the  modulation. 

A  moment's  pause  elapsed,  and  the  visitor 
2* 


14  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

involuntarily  cast  a  hasty,  but  observing 
glance  around  the  circle.  Mr.  Barnwell,  a 
handsome,  dignified-looking  man  of  fifty, 
occupied  the  table  before  him.  The  cares  of 
manhood,  and  the  toils  of  business,  not  un- 
mingled  with  sharp  sorrow,  had  given  a 
somewhat  sad  and  thoughtful  expression  to 
his  countenance,  and  sprinkled  his  black, 
clustering  locks  with  premature  grey.  But 
his  dark  eye  was  mild  and  untroubled,  and 
an  habitual  smile  of  benevolence  lingered 
about  his  slightly  compressed  lips.  Charles, 
his  second  son,  of  slight,  graceful  figure,  and 
consumptive  look,  reclined  as  an  invalid  upon 
the  easy  chair,  before  the  fire.  Young  as  he 
was,  for  he  had  not  seen  eighteen  summers, 
there  were  yet  marks  of  high  character  upon 
his  pale  countenance.  His  dark,  lustrous  eye 
was  fixed  with  an  expression  of  deep  affection 
upon  his  sister;  and  by  his  slightly  parted 
lips,  and  half-suppressed  breath,  he  testified 
the  interest  he  felt  in  what  she  was  reading. 
Little  Josephine,  the  child,  and  the  pet  of  the 
family,  occupied  an  ottoman  at  her  brother's 
side,  and  affectionately  reposed  her  dark 
glossy  curls,  and  sunny  childish  brow,  upon 


i:\ii.  TIP  •  !."» 

the  right  arm  which  hung  over  the  chair.  A 
maiden  sister  o(  Mr.  Barnwell,  infirm  through 
many  years  of  trying  disease,  occupied  the 
sofa. 

In  a  few  words,  simple,  fervent,  and  heart 
felt,  Mr.  Barnwell  presented  the  thanksgiv 
ings,  the  feelings,  desires,  and  wants  of  his 
family  at  the  throne  of  grace.  A  few  mo 
ments  of  silence  elapsed  after  he  had  con 
cluded,  in  which  each  individual  might  silently 
offer  up  personal  petitions,  and  then  they  arose 
from  their  knees,  and  prepared  to  separate  for 
the  night 

With  the  instinct  of  good  breeding,  the  vis 
itor  withdrew  from  the  centre  of  the  apart 
ment  towards  the  grate,  to  allow  the  parting 
salutations  of  the  family  to  be  exchanged 
without  restraint. 

After  an  affectionate  good-night  to  her 
father  and  brother,  and  a  respectful  salute  to 
the  visitor,  Constance  gracefully  offered  her 
arm  to  her  aunt,  and  taking  little  Josephine 
by  the  hand,  left  the  room.  She  was  soon 
followed  by  Charles,  upon  whom,  as  he  pass 
ed  the  door,  the  father's  eye  lingered  with  a 
melancholy  fondness. 


16  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'And  now,  sir,  we  are  alone,'  said  Mr. 
Barnwell,  inviting  his  visitor  to  a  seat.  '  I 
see  by  the  expression  of  your  countenance, 
that  something  unpleasant  has  occurred.' 

( Perhaps,'  said  Mr.  Jones,  hesitating,  '  the 
topic — for  it  is  an  unpleasant  one — might  be 
better  deferred  until  the  morning.  I  am  re 
luctant  to  disturb  the  feelings  which  such  a 
scene  as  I  have  just  witnessed  has  excited. 
Truly,  Barnwell,  you  are  a  happy  man.' 

'  Thank  God,  thank  God !'  replied  the  other, 
with  some  emotion.  '  But  in  hours  like  these 
my  heart  is  strong,  and  if  you  are,  as  I  sus 
pect,  the  bearer  of  evil  tidings,  doubt  not  that 
I  am  prepared  to  meet  them.' 

'Really,  you  distress  me,  Mr.  Barnwell,' 
said  his  visitor,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  pac 
ing  the  floor  with  a  rapid  step, '  it  is  not  at  a 
moment  like  this  that  I  could  be  prepared — ' 

'  Nay,  Jones,'  replied  the  other  with  an  anx 
ious  smile, '  you  distress  me  by  suspense. 
When  did  you  arrive  in  town  V 

'  I  came  an  hour  ago,  and  yours  is  the  first 
house  I  have  entered.  My  errand,  as  you 
may  imagine,  is  urgent.  The  house  of  Stokes 
and  Newell  has  failed.' 


K\IL    111'  17 

'  Rumors  to  that  effect  have  been  circulat 
ed  on  'change'but  always  stoutly  contradicted 
*t>y  their  correspondents.  There  have  also 
been  whispers  of  a  satisfactory  adjustment  of 
claims.  The  principal  agent  called  upon  me 
to-day  to  assure  me  that  any  anxiety  which 
theae  rumors  might  have  excited  in  my  mind 
was  needless.' 

'  The  villain  knows  better,'  exclaimed  Jones 
with  sudden  energy.  '  It  is  a  complete  bank 
ruptcy,  Mr.  Barnwell ;  not  even  an  offer  at  a 
compromise — the  boasted  assets,  I  assure  you, 
are  but  so  much  wind  and  paper.' 

A  sickly  change  passed  over  the  counte 
nance  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  as  he  heard  these 
words.  The  color  rapidly  fled  from  his 
cheeks,  and  a  heavy  sigh  escaped  him.  He 
could  not  speak,  but  silently  motioned  to  his 
visitor  to  go  on. 

*  Dear  sir,'  said  he,  *  I  have  given  you  great 
pain.  But  my  duty,  as  a  correspondent  of 
your  honorable  house,  has  compelled  me  to 
broach  the  subject  of  my  visit  thus  plainly. 
!y  regriUhat  I  see  no  way  of  saving  the 
liabilities  oi  that  house.' 

With  a  MI-PI;-.:  <  Hbrt,  Mr.  Barnwell  control  1- 


18  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ed  his  emotion,  and  said  with  some  show  of 
calmness, '  It  is  worse  with  us  than  you  sus 
pect  in  these  relations.  Jones,  your  announce 
ment  brings  before  me  the  prospect  of  certain 
ruin.' 

'  Gracious  heaven  !'  exclaimed  the  other 
with  unfeigned  emotion,  as  he  paced  the  floor : 
and  then  stopping  short  before  Mr.  Barnwell, 
added  in  a  sinking  voice, — (  and  your  private 
endorsements  ?' 

1  Must  be  without  provision  also,'  was  the 
reply.  '  My  friend,  you  know  that  my  confi 
dence  in  that  house  was  unbounded,  but  you 
know  not  how  very  deeply  I  am  involved, — 
and  then  our  severe  losses  by  the  wreck  of  the 
Wave,  and  Dolphin,- — and  the  utter  prostra 
tion  of  the  stocks.' 

The  kind  hearted  Mr.  Jones  sank  upon  a 
chair,  beside  the  other,  and  covered  his  fore 
head  with  his  hand.  A  few  moments  of  si 
lence  elapsed,  during  which,  each  in  his  own 
mind,  rapidly  ran  over  the  painful  consequen 
ces,  which  might  follow  these  disclosures. 
The  half-hour  stroke  upon  the  chronometer 
aroused  Mr.  Barnwell. 

*  Pardon  me  my  friend,'  he  said,  '  if  in  the 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  19 

Mi<l<lrn  f«vlings  of  despondency,  which  your 
communication  has  excited,  I  have  neglected 
some  of  the  rites  of  hospitality.  Permit  me 
to  order  supper,  your  anxiety  to  reach  me  has 
perhaps' 

'  I  thank  you,  sir,  I  came  by  the  steamer, 
and  took  tea  on  board.  But  I  had  almost 
forgotten  a  letter,  with  which  I  was  charged 
by  the  head  of  the  firm.  It  is,  doubtleSSs,  his 
own  communication  upon  the  business.  Use 
no  ceremony,  with  me,  sir,  I  beg' 

So  saying,  he  placed  the  letter  in  question 
in  Mr.  Barnwell's  hands,  who  broke  the  seal 
with  a  gesture  of  acknowledgement  of  the 
politeness  of  his  guest,  and  rapidly  scanned 
its  contents. 

For  a  moment  the  expression  of  his  counte 
nance,  changed  to  that  of  gratified  surprise. 
Then  his  attention  became  deeply  absorbed 
in  the  communication,  his  brow  and  cheek 
became  flushed,  and  his  eye  clouded.  When 
he  had  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  sheet,  he 
could  scarcely  control  his  agitation. 

'  This  letter,  my  friend/  he  said  to  his 
guest,  '  requires  consideration,  before  I  can 
make  up  my  mind  as  to  its  precise  meaning. 


20  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

• 

But  weighty  as  our  business  is,  let  us  dismiss 
it  for  the  night,  and  now  to  pleasanter 
themes.' 

'  And  this  is  the  Christian  spirit,'  said  his 
guest  to  himself  as,  with  a  cheerful  but  subdu 
ed  smile,  Mr.  Barnwell  passed  to  other  topics. 

'You  left  Constance  a  prattling  school 
girl — you  find  her  a  woman,'  he  observed, 
after  some  general  conversation,  concerning 
mutual  acquaintances,  and  old  friends,  known 
and  loved  by  both.' 

'  Dear  sir,'  replied  his  guest,  '  the  change 
MS  almost  magical.  A  few  dull  matter-of-fact 
years  of  my  bachelor's  life,  day  out  and  day 
in,  have  wrought  a  transformation  to  which  I 
can  scarcely  r  econcile  myself.  You,  however, 
my  friend,  must  have  a  heaven  upon  earth, 
with  such  a  creature  for  its  minister.' 

'  She  is  indeed,  a  daughter  to  be  beloved  and 
prized.  Her  opportunities  have  been,  as  you 
know,  good,  and  I  can  say  with  honest  pride, 
that  she  has  improved  them  to  the  utmost.  It 
is  almost  too  much  to  say,  but  indeed,  sir,  she 
is  all  I  could  wish  in  a  daughter,  She  al 
ready  supplies  the  place  of  her  sainted  mother 
to  Josephine,  and  at  her  own  request,  I  have 


EVIL  TIDINGS.  21 

mainly  resigned  to  her  the  charge  of  her  edu 
cation.     For  such  a  charge  her  accomplish 
ments  and  disposition  eminently  qu;: 
'  I  can  believe  it — and  Charles  T 

*  Unhappy  boy,'   sighed  the   parent;   the 
cloud  more  than  half  returning  upon  his  brow. 
"  I  fear  he  ne\vr  will  be  strong  enough  for 
business  or  a  profession.      Once   this  might 
have  been  a  subject  of  little  solicitude,  but 
now' 

'Now,  indeed,' — added  his  sympathizing 
friend. 

'  But  I  must  trust  in  God  for  all  things.  Hi 
therto  my  happiness  has  been  beyond  my 
deserts;  and  he  will  not  afflict  beyond  my 
strength  to  bear.  My  son  has  talents  and  ac 
complishments  sufficient  to  allow  him  to  enter 
upon  any  course  of  business  or  profession  with 
;ul>  antage ;  but  indeed,  I  cannot  think  of  it  in 
his  present  state  of  health. 

*  I  have  heard,'  said  Mr.  Jones,  *  incident 
ally,  of  Charles's  fondness  for  literature.     Et 
nos  in  Jlrcadui — pardon  me,  1  once  had  such  a 

>n  myself;  and  you  will  know  how  to 
excuse  me  if  I  express  the  h<>|ir  that  you  will 
allow  him  to  cultivate  his  taste.' 


22  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  I  have  idolized  that  boy ;'  replied  the  fond 
father :  '  I  have  gloried  in  his  talents ;  his 
genius — for  genius,  notwithstanding  a  father's 
partiality,  I  know  him  to  possess.  And  now, 
in  his  feebleness,  I  would  not  deny  one  wish  of 
his  heart.  But  his  intellectual  labors,  lightly 
as  he  esteems  them,  are  daily  robbing  him  of 
the  vigor  that  remains.  I  fear  that  I  shall 
soon  be  obliged  to  forbid  him  altogether  the 
use  of  his  books  and  pen.  But  we  shall  see.' 

In  such  half-pleasant,  half-mournful  conver 
sation,  an  hour  passed  away;  and  then  the 
friends  separated  for  the  night. 

With  an  anxious  heart  Constance  retired  to 
her  room,  but  not  to  rest.  She  had  observed, 
with  pain,  the  cloud  upon  the  countenance  of 
their  unexpected  visitor,  and  had  hailed  it  as 
the  harbinger  of  evil  tidings.  She  knew  that 
a  terrible  crisis  in  the  commercial  world  had 
arrived ;  and  that,  amidst  the  universal  crash, 
the  prudent  and  honorable  were  too  often  in 
volved  in  the  same  ruin  with  the  speculator  and 
the  fraudulent  trader.  Even  the  quiet  retire 
ment  of  her  own  lovely  home  had  not  entirely 
escaped  an  infusion  of  the  gloomy  atmosphere 
that  pervaded  the  city  and  country  at  large. 


I. VII.  TIDINGS.  23 

And  the  circumstance  of  Mr.  Jones'  arrival, 
his  language,  his  manner,  wire  sufficient  to 
fill  her  mind  with  forebodings  of  approaching 
l>iruniary  distress  to  her  father. 

For  a  long  and  weary  hour  she  heard  her 
father's  footsteps  as  he  paced  the  floor  of  his 
chamber;  and  this,  as  she  knew,  betokened 
unusual  trial.  Commending  him,  and  their 
common  fortunes,  to  the  God  in  whom  she  had 
always  been  taught  to  trust,  she  at  length  sank 
into  a  disturbed  sleep. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MERCHANT  IN  HIS  CHAMBER. 

Be  just,  and  fear  not : 

Let  all  the  endsthou  aim'st  al  be  thy  country'*, 
Thy  God's,  and  truth's  ;  then  if  thou  fall'st 
Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 

SHAKSPEARK. 

THE  merchant  sat  alone  in  his  chamber. 
The  evidence  of  deep  and  anxious  thought 
was  upon  his  brow,  as  he  leaned  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  expiring 
coals  of  the  grate.  The  letter  which  he  had 
received  from  Mr.  Jones  was  open  upon  the 
table  before  him. 

'  No,'  he  at  length  exclaimed — rising  and 
pacing  the  floor.  '  I  may  be  ruined,  I  may  be 
reduced  to  poverty,  but  I  will  never  tamper 
with  dishonest  practices.  I  am  offered  securi 
ties  which  the  law  might  allow  me,  but  which 
my  conscience  would  condemn  me  for  ac 
cepting.  The  other  creditors  of  this  unfortu 
nate  house  shall  not,  through  me.  lose  even 


THE   MERCHANT. 

the  miserable  dividend  to  which  they  are  en 
titled.' 

He  continued  for  some  time  in  silence. 

*  Dreary !'  he  resumed,  as  a  slight  shudder 
passed  through  his  frame,  '  dreary,  indeed,  is 
tin-  prospect ;  but  it  is  the  will  of  God,  and  I 
cannot  avert  it^  And  yet  shall  I  have  strength 
to  meet  this  *  armed  man'  of  want — to  deny 
to  my  children  the  comforts  and  the  privileges 
of  that  society  in  which  they  have  hitherto 
moved;  to  subject  them,  perhaps,  to  depend 
ence  upon  others — to  the  cheerless  drudgery — 
but  how — how  to  maintain  even  an  honorable 
poverty  ?  Oh,  God,  thou  alone  canst  direct 
me!' 

He  knelt  down  by  his  bed-side,  and  con 
tinued  for  some  time  in  silent  prayer.  When 
he  arose,  his  brow  was  calm  and  his  eye  was 
clear.  The  excitement  of  fear,  and  of  the 
agonizing  contemplation  of  the  future  had 
passed  away,  and  despondency,  chastened  by 
religious  trust,  and  not  altogether  unillumined 
by  the  sweet  rays  of  hope,  alone  remained. 

At  the  future,  dark  with  uncertainties,  pri 
vations,  perhaps  distresses,  he  brought  him 
self  steadily  to  look  tre  he  closed  his  eyes  in 
3* 


26  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

sleep.  With  every  vision  as  it  successively 
rose  and  faded  before  his  mind's  eye,  there 
was  blended  the  soft,  spiritual  countenance  of 
Constance,  rendered  more  touchingly  beauti 
ful  by  sorrow  patiently  endured — the  pale 
face  and  burning  eye  of  Charles — the  cherub 
features  of  Josephine,  prematurely  dashed 
with  care,  alien  to  her  youth,  and  her  gay, 
sunny,  joyous  nature.  And  then  he  thought 
of  the  circumstances  which  must  attend  his 
altered  position  in  society — the  changes  and 
the  coldness  to  be  expected  in  a  community 
where  wealth  was  the  great  standard  of  re 
spectability — of  the  harassing  pressure  of 
debt  incurred  through  the  folly  or  the  crime 
of  others,  yet  weighing  no  less  heavily  upon 
him — of  the  hard  struggle  with  adversity 
amidst  the  stagnation  of  business,  and  the  uni 
versal  prostration  of  enterprise. 

From  all  this  there  was  indeed  one  way  of 
escape.  It  was  not  through  the  open  path  of 
dishonor.  He  might  tread  it  amidst  the  smiles 
and  encouragement  of  the  world,  and  no 
breath  of  suspicion  would  rest  upon  his  name. 
To  all  but  himself,  his  immediate  business 
connections,  and  his  God,  the  circumstances 


THE   MERCHANT.  27 

would  remain  hidden.  But  the  world's  law 
was  not  his,  nor  was  the  letter  of  the  statute 
his  standard  of  morality.  At  the  bar  of  con- 

<  •(-,  the  stain  of  dishonesty  would  rest  upon 
the  transaction. 

The  struggle  with  the  temptation  had  al 
ready  been  successfully  waged.  Now  he  re 
solutely  closed  his  mind  against  it,  and  in  the 
strength  of  Christian  principle,  dismissed  the 
subject  from  his  thoughts.  Calmly  reflecting 
upon  the  course  he  should  pursue,  and  resolv 
ing  to  interpose  no  unnecessary  delay  in  the 
public  acknowledgment  of  his  situation,  he 
again  silently  commended  himself  and  his 
interesting  household  to  God,  and  found  re 
lief  in  the  sustained  repose  of  an  honest  mind, 
and  a  heart  free  from  guile.  Conscious  in- 

;y  can  slumber  peacefully  amidst  the 
storm  that  rends  the  guilty  breast  with  t  la- 
darkest  fears.  Christian  principle  can  impart 
a  glorious  strenijth  to  the  soul  in  difficulties 
\\hich  brin^  the  blackest  despair  to  the  mere 
man  of  the  world.  In  thy  mercy  and  thy 
wisdom,  oh  Lord,  thou  hast  so  ordained  it, 
and  happy  is  the  man  who,  when  earthly  sup 
ports  fail,  can  find  and  J\-d  the  blessedness  of 
leaning  upon  the  ROCK  OF  AGES. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  FAMILY  SCENE. 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life 
That  to  the  observer  doth  thy  history 
Fully  unfold.  SHAKSPKARE. 

1  CHARLES,  dear  Charles,'  exclaimed  little 
Josephine,  as  she  burst  into  the  breakfast- 
room  on  the  following  morning,  having  es 
caped  from  the  gentle  hand  of  her  sister,  who 
followed  her  into  the  room ;  '  I  have  had 
such  a  beautiful  dream.  I  dreamed  that  you 
had  got  well,  entirely  well,  and  that  we  were 
all  on  board  of  a  fine  noble  ship,  and  were 
sailing  to  Europe ;  yes,  to  England  and  to 
France,  and  to  lovely  Italy,  as  you  have  often 
called  it ;  and  then  father  seemed  so  happy, 

and  Constance' 

'  Well,  what  of  Constance  ?'  said  her  bro 
ther,  as  she  buried  her  bright  face  in  his 
bosom. 

'  Why,  Constance  sat  by  us  all  the  time, 
and  read  pretty  books  to  us,  and  painted  pic 
tures,  and  sang  her  beautiful  songs.' 


A   FAMILY   SCENE.  29 

*  Well,  that  is  a  pretty  dream  ;  what  would 
you  give  it'  it  should  come  to  pass  ?' 

*  Give,'  replied  the  child  with  her  finger 
upon  her  lip,  musingly, — *  give — why — give 
— I  would  give  even  my  dear  little  bird,'  and 
away  she  skipped  to  attend  to  the  morning 
wants  of  her  little  favorite. 

*  Sister,  I  have  received  good  news  this 
morning,'  said  Charles,  as  he  saluted  Con 
stance,  '  can  you  guess  at  its  import  V 

'  Perhaps  I  can,'  she  replied,  smiling  as 
she  glanced  at  a  number  of  a  popular  review, 
newly  issued,  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 
The  muses  have  been  propitious,  I  suppose, 
ami  you  are  basking  in  their  golden  favors.' 

'  You  do  me  too  much  honor,  but  my  ar 
ticle  has  appeared,  and  here/  drawing  a  let 
ter  from  his  pocket,  '  is  a  very  flattering  ac 
knowledgement  from  the  editor,  enclosing, 
what  do  you  think  ? — a  ten  dollar  note — and 
a  polite  request  for  future  communications. 
So  my  literary  bark  is  fairly  launched,  and  I 
have  wind  and  tide  in  my  favor.' 

'  Let  me  see,  brother,'  interposed  Josephine, 
".vho  had  returned,  and  bent  her  sparkling 
eyes  upon  the  open  page  ;  "  let  me  see  how 


30  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

your  writing  looks  in  print.  I  am  sure  I  read 
that  piece  of  poetry  in  the  Knickerbocker 
right  out  loud,  and  entirely  to  myself  at  least 
twenty  times.  But  this  is  not  poetry,  is  it 
Charles  ?' 

'  No,  dearest,  it  is  prose,  and  heavy  enough 
too.  And  now,  Constance,  what  do  you 
think  of  my  prospects  in  the  republic  of  let 
ters  1  See,  this  is  not  the  light,  volatile  mat 
ter  of  which  my  previous  attempts  were  com 
posed.  It  is  an  ambitious  review  on  a  very 
important  subject ;  and — in  short,  Constance, 
have  I  not  succeeded  tolerably  ?' 

'  Why,  Charles,'  replied  his  sister  laugh 
ingly,  but  with  sisterly  encouragement  of  his 
blushing  enthusiasm,  '  you  ask  my  opinion 
before  I  have  read  the  article.  You  must 
take  me  for  a  prodigy  of  wisdom  in  supposing 
me  to  be  able  to  pronounce  critically  upon 
your  merits  under  such  circumstances.  An 
hour  or  two  hence,  I  shall  be  enabled  to  en 
lighten  you  with  my  weighty  judgment, 
perhaps.' 

'  True,  my  vanity  is  unpardonable,'  said 
Charles,  laughing,  in  return.  '  You  will  read 
it,  I  know,  and  as  you  are  well  read  on  the 


A   FAMILY   ST!  '.'A 

subject,  I  can  depend  upon  your  opinion. 
And  now,  what  shall  I  attempt  n«-vt  ? — let  me 
see.  If  this  good-natured  editor  had  only  ex 
tended  his  kindness  so  far  as  to  suggest  some 
thing  within  the  scope  of  my  powers.  But  I 
will  follow  it  up,  sister  !' 

*  Not  too  eagerly  I  trust,  my  dear  brother,' 
replied  Constance,  with  an  expression  of  ten 
der  anxiety,  as  she  saw  the  high  flush  upon 
his  cheek,  and  the  too  strong  fire  in  his  eye ; 
*  your  health  will  not  allow  of  this  devotion 
to  your  study  !' 

*  But  in  such  gloomy  weather  as  this,  Con 
stance,  surely ' 

'  Surely  not,  Charles,  recreation  is  as  need 
ful  in  gloomy  weather  as  in  sunshine.  Now, 
brother,  promise  to  spend  the  morning  with 
me.  I  will  read  to  you — talk  to  you — sing 
to  you — play  for  you,  do  anything  to  al 
lure  you,  for  ason  from  your  books. 
Come,  that  interesting  book  of  travels  of 
Mr.  Steveas  has  been  kit  g  on  your  table  for 
three  or  four  days  unopened.  We  will  spend 
the  morning  in  the  deserts —  -Aaron's 
tomb,  or  flying  from  the  Arabs.' 

'  Agreed,  Constance,  such  a  temptation  I 


32  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

cannot  resist — agreed,  provided  you  allow  me 
to  escape  for  one  short  hour,  before  dinner, 
to  my  study,  just  to  hunt  up  a  subject,  you 
know.' 

'  Nay  ;  did  I  not  say  the  whole  morning  1 
so  rest  contented  to  be  my  good  knight  for 
the  day.  And,  in  good  time,  here  comes  fa 
ther,  and  I  will  appeal  to  him  if  I  ask  too 
much.' 

'  I  heard  your  last  words  in  the  hall,  Con 
stance,  and  Charles  knows  my  wishes  on  this 
subject  too  well  to  doubt  of  my  readiness  to 
second  you  in  so  laudable  a  work.  Seriously, 
my  son,  I  have  become  very  much  alarmed 
for  your  health.  Learn  to  consider  it,  my 
boy,  as  a  sacred  gift,  for  which  you  are  re 
sponsible  to  God.  Yours  is  a  fragile  consti 
tution — the  ardor  of  your  mind,  without  the 
intellectual  stimulus  daily  applied  to  it,  is  al 
most  too  much  for  the  feeble  frame  work  in 
which  it  is  lodged.  Sickness  may  soon  de 
prive  you  of  the  enjoyment  you  find  in  litera 
ture.  Why  not  husband  your  strength  by 
occasional  relaxation,  for,  depend  upon  it,  the 
time  you  thus  devote,  will  hereafter  return  it 
self  fourfold." 


A   FAMILY   SC!  33 

*  Father,  I  am  ready  to  obey  you  in  what 
ever  you  command.     But  Mr. 's  letter 

has  excited  me  more  than  usual  this  morning 
— and — and — you  can  pardon  the  ambitious 
vanity  of  a  young  author  on  his  debut  into 
the  arena  of  high  letters.' 

With  a  gratified  look,  Charles  placed  the 
Irtirr  into  the  hands  of  his  father,  who  perus 
ed  it  with  sincere  pleasure. 

*  Really,  my  son,'  he  observed,  as  he  re 
turned  it, '  this  speaks  much  for  your  pros 
pects.     I  consider  such  a  testimonial  from  the 

Editor  of  the Review,  as  decisive  on 

the    merits  of  your  production.     And  yet, 
Charles,' — this  he  said  half  musingly,  while 
an  expression  of  sadness  flitted  over  his  coun- 
1 1 -nance — '  literature  is  but  a  precarious  call 
ing — a  thorny  road  sometimes,  and  bootless 
labor,  but' — and  he  smiled  again  with  sud- 
( It-n  animation — f  I  will  not  discourage  you, 
for  it  is  your  most  valued  resource.' 

*  So  we  shall  have  Charles  all  the  morning, 
father,'  said  Josephine,  in  her  glad  silvery  ac 
re  nls,  rising  on  tiptoe  to  receive  her  father's 
morning  kiss,  '  Oh,  how  glad  I  shall  be' 

*  And  your  studies  love  V  playfully  inquir- 

4 


34  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ed  Constance.  '  No,  no,  sister/  she  eagerly 
replied, '  you  need  not  think  that  I  shall  neg 
lect  them;  for  I  shall  study  all  the  better 
when  Charles  is  with  us.  Only  I  should  like 
to  peep  out  of  my  little  closet  now  and  then, 
just  to  ask  him  a  question,  you  know,  for  the 
sake  of  hearing  his  voice — and' 

'  Forgetting  your  task,  is  that  it,  daugh 
ter?' 

'  Well  then,  sir,  I  will  be  contented  with 
asking  only  one  question — one  little  question.' 

'  Come,  now,  dearest,'  said  Mr.  Barnwell, 
playfully, '  confess  that  it  will  be  a  hardship 
to  remain  shut  up  in  your  little  closet,  when 
Constance  and  Charles  are  pleasantly  occu 
pied  in  the  drawing-room.  It  is  a  dreary 
place,  is  it  not  ?' 

'  Oh,  no,  father,'  said  the  little  girl,  ear 
nestly,  '  not  dreary,  for  mother's  portrait  is 
there,  and  when  I  have  been  studying  hard, 
and  begin  to  feel  fatigued,  I  look  up,  and  she 
smiles  so  sweetly  upon  me,  that  I  go  on 
again  nicely.' 

The  tenderest  feelings  of  the  FATHER,  tried 
and  anxious  as  he  was  at  the  moment,  were 
thoroughly  touched  by  this  unexpected  ap- 


A    FAMILY    SCI  35 

peal  from  the  happy  and  innocent  child.  The 
tears  startnl  to  his  eyes,  and  he  did  not  seek 
to  restrain  his  emotion.  He  caught  the  little 
cherub  in  his  arms,  and  hiding  her  face  in  his 
bosom,  wept  as  he  stood. 

There  are  moments  when  it  is  a  luxury  to 
weep.  There  are  moments  when  even  sor 
row  brings  a  gill  ol  exquisite  blessedness,  and 
\\hrn  the  grief  which  has  been  long  restrain 
ed  within  the  solitary  bosom,  finds  relief  in 
tears,  which  like  the  soft  and  balmy  rams  of 
spring,  soften  and  bless  whatever  they  touch. 

'  Your  mother,  dearest  child,  is  an  angel  in 
la -iiven,  I  trust,'  he  replied,  in  a  low  and  sub 
dued  voice,  as  the  child  looked  up  wonder- 
ingly  through  her  own  brilliant  tears, — '  and 
will  always  smile  upon  you  when  you  are 
(luin<4  your  duty.  But,  my  children,  we  for 
get  our  guest.  Constance,  will  you  order  the 
servant  to  ring  the  bell  for  our  morning  de- 
voti< 

As  Mr.  Jones  entered  the  room  he  could 

not  forbear  casting  a  hasty  glance  around  the 

little  family  group,  actuated  by  a   desire  to 

ascertain  whether  the  melancholy  announce- 

bis  situation  had  been  made  to  his 


36  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

children  by  Mr.  Barnwell.  Apparently  sa 
tisfied  that  such  had  not  been  the  case,  he  re 
turned  their  morning  salutations  with  a  friend 
ly  smile,  and  joined  with  heart-felt  interest  in 
the  family  devotions. 

The  breakfast  hour  was  occupied  by  plea 
sant  general  conversation,  in  which  Mr.  Barn- 
well  and  his  guest  seemed  equally  to  avoid 
even  the  most  distant  allusions  to  the  subject 
that  most  deeply  interested  their  thoughts. 
At  the  accustomed  hour  of  business  they  de 
parted  together  for  the  counting  house,  leav 
ing  Constance  and  her  brother  alone.  In  a 
short  time  Josephine  was  quietly  settled  to 
her  studies  and  drawing. 

Though  the  anxiety  of  Constance  in  regard 
to  the  subject  of  the  visit  of  Mr.  Jones,  had 
been  increased  rather  than  diminished  by  the 
occurrences  of  the  morning,  she  succeeded  in 
confining  it  to  her  own  bosom.  Prudently 
considering  that  mental  excitement  of  any 
kind  would  prove  highly  injurious  to  her  bro 
ther,  in  his  present  state  of  health,  she  care 
fully  avoided  all  allusion  to  the  topic,  resolv 
ing  not  to  touch  upon  it  till  circumstances 
should  render  it  absolutely  necessary  to  do  so. 


\M1LY   SCI  37 

Tli*    interesting  volumes  whieh    sin-    had 
recommended  to  her  brother  were  begun,  and 
perused  with  tin-  highest  satisfaction.     Music 
and  drawing,  with  the  recitations  of  Joseph 
ine,  filled  the  intervals  between  the  reading. 
Thus  the  morning  hours  passed  rapidly  and 
pleasantly  away,  and  Charles  for  once  felt 
happy  in  so  long  an  absence  from  his  study. 
Lit t It-  did  the  inmates  of  that  happy  home 
dream  of  the  dark  cloud  that  was  already 
descending  upon  them,  laden  with  sorrow  and 
unwonted  privation.     While  the  beloved  fa 
ther,  in  the  counting-house,  was  nerving  him 
self  to  the  most  honorable  course  in  his  dis 
tressing  circumstances,  and  the  looks  of  the 
hard  cold  world  had  already  begun  to  change 
upon  him ;  they  as  yet  felt  nothing,  knew 
nothing  of  the  threatening  disasters.     But  the 
storm  gathered  no  less  certainly,  and  was 
about  to  break  no  less  fiercely.     Innocence, 
maidenly  worth,  and  love,  and  gentleness, 
youthful  ardor,  and  purity  of  soul,  offered  no 
protection  against  its  outbreaking. 

And  thus  it  is  ever  in  this  checkered  scene 
<>f  human  lile.     The  same  tempest  that  bears 
down  the  guilty,  the  ignoble,  and  depraved, 
4' 


38  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

overwhelms  also  the  innocent,  the  high-mind 
ed,  the  pure  in  soul.  Were  it  otherwise,  this 
world  would  not  be  what  God  has  ordained 
it  to  be,  a  scene  of  trial  and  of  preparation 
for  a  better  existence.  Placed  upon  the  nar 
row  isthmus  of  time,  and  yet  a  probationer  for 
eternity,  girded  round  with  the  apparatus  of 
trial,  and  plied  by  all  the  solemn  inducements 
which  eternity  can  offer  to  his  hopes  or  to  his 
fears,  it  is  right  that  man  should  be  obliged 
to  struggle  here  to  gain  a  meetness  for  the 
bliss  of  the  future.  '  Rest,  rest,'  said  an  emi 
nent  Christian,  whose  praise  is  in  the  church 
es,  '  we  shall  have  rest  enough  in  heaven.' 
Now  is  the  season  for  striving,  then  shall  be 
the  high  recompense  of  fidelity  and  the  glo 
rious  triumphs  of  faithfulness. 

Through  the  folly  and  guilty  speculations  of 
worldly  and  godless  men,  misfortune  was 
brought  upon  this  Christian  family.  Thus 
God  often  employs  the  worthless  as  instru 
ments  in  his  hand  to  promote  the  discipline  of 
his  chosen  people.  But  if  he  afflicts  sharply, 
sometimes,  he  no  less  surely  vouchsafes  that 
consolation  and  support  which  can  enable 
them  to  bear  up  under  their  sorrows.  Let  us 


• 

A    FAMILY    SCI  '  39 

then  learn  to  interpret  his  providences  aright, 
to  *  hear '  reverently  and  thankfully  '  the 
voice  of  the  rod,  and  who  hath'appointed  it' 

'  It  it  not  better  to  lie  Hill, 

Let  him  strike  borne  and  blew  the  rod ; 

Never  so  wife  u  when  our  will 

Y  it-Ida  uodiKcrned  by  all  but  God.' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HOPES  AND  FEARS. 

Whence  then,  that  peace 

So  dovelike  ;  settling  o'er  a  soul  that  loved 

Earth  and  its  pleasures  7  Whence  that  angel  smile 

With  which  the  allurements  of  a  world  so  dear 

Were  courted  and  secured.  MRS.  SIOOURNEY. 

AT  seven  o'clock  the  younger  members  of 
the  family  were  assembled,  as  usual,  in  the 
drawing  room.  Mr.  Barn  well,  occupied  by 
business  during  the  whole  day,  had  not  yet 
arrived. 

A  visitor  was  announced.  The  eye  of 
Charles  brightened,  and  Constance  blushed  a 
little  at  the  bright,  quick  glance  of  her  broth 
er,  as  a  young  gentleman,  announced  by  the 
servant  as  Mr.  Seaman,  entered. 

He  was  possessed  of  a  tall,  noble  fig 
ure,  and  open,  handsome  countenance,  with 
an  eye  and  forehead  betokening  great  intelli 
gence,  and  generosity  of  disposition. 

'  Good  evening,  Miss  Barnwell,'  he  observ 
ed,  as  he  advanced  and  respectfully  took  her 


HOPES  AND  FEARS.  41 

hand  ; '  you  see  that  I  am  true  to  my  charac 
ter  as  a  a  constant  visitor — and,  Charles,  my 
dear  fellow,  allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on 
your  decided  success  in  the  splendid  article 
in  the  Review.  I  have  heard  nothing  but 
your  praises  all  day.  If  I  were  not  so  deep 
in  the  statute  books  as  I  am,  as  a  withered 
and  soulless  limb  of  the  law,  I  might  possi 
bly  be  disposed  to  feel  a  little  jealous  of  my 
classmate  and  college  competitor.' 

*  I  wish,  heartily,'  replied  Charles,  '  that 
a  little  jealousy,  if  you  can  find  no  better 
motive,  could  induce  you  to  give  more  at 
tention  than  you  do  to  general   literature. 
Brougham,  you  know,  and  Scott,  and  Tal- 
fourd' 

*  Quite  right,  my  dear  friend  ;  and  I  know 
what  you  would  add,  but  I  have  very  little 
inclination  that  way  since  I  entered  the  office. 
You  know  that  some  of  my  amusements  are 
literary,  notwithstanding,  but  I  shall  scarcely 
aspire  to  the  honors  of  an  author.' 

'Well  he  it  so,'  replied  Charles;  <Con- 
Mance  has  almost  persuaded  me  to-day,  to 
give  up  the  pursuit  myself.  She  has  kept  me, 
absolutely  kept  me  in  inglorious  idleness  for 


42  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  whole  of  this  day.  To  be  sure  I  have 
been  recompensed  in  another  way,  but  what 
will  become  of  my  literary  projects  at  this 
rate.' 

'  Is  it  not  right,  Mr.  Seaman,'  said  Con 
stance  with  a  smile,  '  that  I,  having  no  other 
work  of  charity  on  hand,  should  act  the  part 
of  the  good  physician  towards  this  wayward 
and  invalid  brother.' 

'  Truly,  Charles,'  replied  Seaman  with  an 
imation,  '  I  heartily  envy  you  your  illness.  I 
too,  Miss  Constance,  will  consent  to  become 
an  invalid  for  the  sake  of  securing  such  a 
physician.' 

Edward  Seaman  was  an  honored  and  high 
ly  esteemed  friend  of  the  family.  His  father 
and  Mr.  Barnwell  had  been  intimate  from 
early  life,  and  the  friendly  intercourse  be 
tween  the  parents  had  been  extended  to  their 
families.  Edward  was  a  constant  visitor  in 
the  family  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  and  his  visits  had 
always  been  hailed  with  pleasure  by  all  its 
members.  An  attachment,  scarcely  known 
to  either,  had  insensibly  grown  up  between 
him  and  Constance ;  an  attachment  which 
their  parents  observed  and  highly  approved 


HOPES  AND  FEARS.  43 

Still,  no  disclosures  had  been  made,  and  no 
hopes  formed  beyond  those  blissful  but  un 
defined  frriinirs.  which  so  fully  and  pleasura- 
bly,  under  such  circumstances,  occupy  the 
heart. 

I'd  ward  Seaman  was  a  young  gentleman 
most  likely  to  acquire  a  deep  interest  in  the 
heart  of  such  a  girl  as  Constance.  Possessed 
of  the  best  natural  talents,  his  mind  had  been 
thoroughly  disciplined  and  cultivated  by  an 
extensive  and  well  chosen  course  of  study. 
His  intellectual  constitution  was  stronger  and 
more  practical  than  that  of  Charles,  and  even 
in  his  first  months  of  college-life,  his  atten 
tion  had  been  strongly  attracted  to  the  law, 
as  the  profession  in  which  he  would  find  the 
most  fitting  and  ample  field  for  his  powers. 
Yet,  with  these  mental  characteristics  he  unit- 
( d  a  pure  taste  and  a  generous  love  of  litera 
ture.  This  latter  trait  had  formed  the  basis 
of  the  truest  and  deepest  friendship  between 
himself  and  Charles  Bamwell.  Constance 
esteemed  him  for  the  weight  of  his  character, 
;t ml  the  manly  sincerity,  generosity,  and  gen 
tleness  of  bis  disposition.  Equally  with  hrr 
brother,  she  knew  him  to  be  infinitely  above 


44  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  mass  of  young  men  in  his  sphere  of  life — 
above  their  sordid  tastes,  dissipated  propensi 
ties,  and  ridiculous  fopperies.  Though  he 
occasionally  indulged  in  the  amusements  of 
fashionable  life,  she  knew  that  his  chosen 
pleasures  were  of  a  far  different  and  nobler 
order.  She  knew  his  character,  also,  in  his 
domestic  relations — the  society  of  home,  and 
within  the  atmosphere  of  the  fireside.  As  a 
son  and  a  brother,  she  had  heard  his  praises 
from  his  relatives  and  most  intimate  friends, 
and  these  were  such»as  to  increase  her  re 
spect,  and  to  deepen  her  attachment. 

While  his  general  character  was  so  much 
in  conformity  with  the  standard  of  intellectual 
and  moral  excellence  which  existed  in  her 
own  pure  mind,  there  was  one  point  on  which 
she  was  not  satisfied.  Possessed  of  the  high 
est  and  noblest  moral  susceptibilities,  Edward 
Seaman  wras  yet  not  a  religious  man.  Gene 
rally  observant  of  the  public  duties  of  religion, 
and  entertaining,  as  she  believed,  a  respect 
for  its  ordinances,  she  knew  that  his  heart 
was  untouched  by  its  power,  and  a  stranger 
to  its  blessedness.  This  was  a  defect  which 
she  could  not  undervalue  or  disregard.  In 


HOPES   AND   FEARS.  4$ 

I 

an  acquaintance  it  would  have  excited  her 
interest,  and  her  quiet  and  unobtrusive  influ 
ence  in  representing  religion  in  its  true  worth 
and  loveliness,  but  in  an  intimate  friend,  and 
much  more  in  a  lover,  it  was  a  defect  over 
which  she  could  weep  with  the  deepest 
feeling. 

Ln  the  course  of  the  evening  the  conversa 
tion  accidentally  turned  upon  religious  topics. 
The  article  which  Charles  had  published  in 
the  Review  contained  a  well  merited  tribute 
to  the  influence  of  the*  religious  press  upon 
the  moral  welfare  of  society.  At  the  request 
of  Edward  Seaman,  Josephine,  who  was  al 
ways  glad  to  undertake  such  a  task,  read  the 
article  aloud.  Upon  the  passage  alluded  to 
Constance  ventured  a  remark,  the  first  she 
had  made. 

4 1  thank  you,  Charles,  for  those  noble  sen- 
Irnrrv.  I  cannot  t.-ll  you  how  much  I  was 
pained  the  other  day  by  the  voice  of  a  boy 
hawking  a  Sunday  paper  under  our  windows, 
and  announcing  among  the  attractioas  of  his 
literary  banquet,  that  a  sermon  in  travestie 
graced  its  columns.' 

'  I  must  plead  guilty,1  said  Edward ;  '  I 
B 


46  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

. 
must  plead  guilty,  Miss  Barnwell,  to  having 

read  that  sermon,  and  think  on  the  whole, 
that  the  sermon  was  calculated  to  have  a  good 
influence.  It  did  take  off  the  ridiculous  cant 
ing  of  some  of  our  pulpits  in  a  capital  man 
ner  to  be  sure,  but  then  it  concluded  with  a 
noble  defence  of  rational  religion.' 

'  I  know  not,'  replied  Constance,  earnestly, 
but  mildly, '  what  is  termed  rational  religion 
in  these  days.  In  England  and  in  our  own 
country  a  few  years  ago,  it  was  the  watch 
word  of  a  party  who  sought  to  rob  Christi 
anity  of  its  most  glorious  and  consoling  truths. 
However  this  may  be,  is  it  possible,  Mr.  Sea 
man,  that  a  publication  which  can  turn  a  sa 
cred  subject  into  ridicule,  can  exert  a  good 
influence  upon  society.' 

'  Nay,  but  the  defence,  Miss  Barnwell' 

'  The  defence — I  have  not  read  it—but 
what  could  it  be  but  a  fruitless  attempt  to  atone 
for  irretrievable  injury,  like  offering  an  anti 
dote  when  the  poison  has  operated.' 

'  It  is  a  well-established  maxim,'  replied 
Seaman,  *  that  ridicule  is  the  test  of  truth.  If 
so,  why  should  not  religious  truth  be  subjected 
to  this  test  as  well  as  every  other  T 


HOPES  AND  PEAKS.  47 

i 

*  Because  religious  truth  is  a  sacred  thing, 
and  not  to  be  sought  as  we  would  seek  the 
truths  of  science  or  philosophy.     It  is  to  be 
pursued  in  the  silence  of  the  closet,  far  away 
from  the  world's  madness  and  the  world's 
laugh.     To  the  sincere  inquiring  mind  alone, 
its  blessed  and  consoling  treasures  are  vouch 
safed.     The  moment  you  introduce  it  into  the 
thoughtless  mirth  and  giddy  whirl  of  society, 
the  follies  and  the  passions  of  man  become 
mingled  with  it,  and  the  voice  of  ridicule  once 
heard,  leaves  its  echo  in  the  mind,  which  will 
long  remain  there,  and  which  the  most  pow 
erful  argument,  and  the  most  affecting  ap 
peals,  sometimes  cannot  silence.' 

*  I  honor  your  sentiments,  Miss  Bamwell, 
while  I  cannot  agree  to  the  conclusion  to 
which  you  have  arrived.     Religion,  I  believe, 
is,  or  ought  to  be,  a  thing  of  reason,  subjected 
to  its  cognizance,  and  regulated  by  its  deci 
sions.     If  its  tenets  contradict  reason,  as  they 
are  taught,  we  are  at  liberty,  I  think,  to  treat 
them  as  the  glosses  of  man,  and  not  the  reve 
lations  of  God.' 

'  But  you  must  admit,  Mr.  Seaman,  that 
while  some  doctrines,  above  but  not  contra- 


48  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

dictory  to  reason,  cannot  be  perfectly  under 
stood  by  the  human  mind  in  the  present  lim 
ited  scope  of  its  faculties,  yet  that  we  are 
bound  to  receive  them  on  the  express  testi 
mony  of  Scripture.' 

'  Certainly,  Miss  Barnwell ;  but  Scripture, 
as  you  know,  may  bear  a  variety  of  interpre 
tations,  and  when  by  a  slight  variation  from 
the  literal  sense,  such  a  doctrine  as  the  Trinity, 
for  example,  may  be  safely  doubted,  the  ap 
peal  should  be  as  I  think  to  reason,  which, 
under  such  circumstances — I  mean  the  possi 
bility  of  a  different  interpretation — should 
certainly  be  allowed  the  decision.' 

'  Am  I  to  understand  you  then,  Mr.  Sea 
man,'  said  Constance,  mildly  but  firmly,  as 
her  cheek  and  brow  became  a  few  shades 
paler, '  as  entertaining  doubts  of  this  doctrine, 
as  it  is  generally  received  in  the  Christian 
church  ?' 

'  Nay,  Miss  Barnwell,  I  only  state  a  gener 
al  principle,  which  I  hold  to  be  applicable  to 
all  religious  truths.' 

'  I  could  find  fault  with  your  assumption, 
and  the  reasoning  drawn  from  it ;  but  I  will 
give  the  subject  into  abler  hands.  *  Perhaps 


AND    KLAK-.  49 

your  avocations  will  allow  you  leisure    to 
IK  nix<>  a  little  work  upon  the  subject* 

*  Any  thing  which  you  recommend,  Miss 
Barnwell,'  replied  Edward,  'shall  be  faithfully 

<fd,  although  I  confess  I  feel  but  a  very 
slender  interest — pardon  me,'  he  added,  as  he 
observed  a  change  upon  her  countenance.  I 
mean,  my  studies  necessarily  preclude  much 
attention  or  interest,  in  regard  to  studies  out 
of  the  line  of  my  profession.' 

*  But  in  the  matter  of  religious  truth,  sure 
ly,'  replied  Constance  anxiously. 

1 1  confess  my  error,  Miss  Barnwell,  and 
perhaps,  nay,  I  know  that  I  have  neglected 
these  things  sadly.  I  must  leave  my  defence 
in  the  hands  of  Charles,  who  knows  my  dis 
position  and  my  habits.' 

Constance  sighed  involuntarily,  at,  what 
she  could  not  but  esteem,  this  light  treatment 
of  a  subject,  which,  to  her,  was  of  all  others 
the  most  sacred  and  important. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Barnwell  entered. 
His  step  was  quick,  and  his  whole  manner 
hasty  and  troubled.  The  moment  that  he 
became  aware,  however,  of  the  presence  of 
the  visitor,  he  controlled  his  emotion  with 
fi* 


60  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

evident  effort,  and  advancing  into  the  circle, 
took  his  seat  quietly  by  the  side  of  his  little 
daughter  on  the  sofa. 

Mr.  Seaman,  pleading  an  engagement,  soon 
retired,  and  the  family  was  once  more  alone. 


CHAPTER   V. 


AN  ANNOUNCEMENT — SORROW  AND    CONSOLATION. 

The  world's  a  room  of  sickness,  where  each  bean 

Knows  iu  own  anguUh  and  unrest  ; 
The  true*  wisdom  there,  and  noblest  art 

Is  uis  who  skills  of  comfort  best ; 
When  by  the  softest  step  and  gentlest  tour 

Enfeebled  spirits  own, 
And  love  to  raise  tin-  languid  eye, 

When  like  an  angel's  wing  they  fed  him  floating  by. 

Kara* 


A  FEW  moments  of  silence  elapsed  after  the 
departure  of  their  visitor,  during  which  the 
same  troubled  expression  returned  to  the 
countenance  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  which  it  had 
worn  as  he  entered  the  room.  Constance 
noticed  it  with  a  sinking  heart,  for  it  confirm 
ed  the  worst  suspicions  she  had  entertained 
on  the  evening  previous.  Charles  soon  be 
came  too  deeply  engaged  in  his  book  to  notice 
any  thing ;  but  Josephine,  as  she  assumed  her 
favorite  position  ujxm  his  knee,  was  struck 
by  the  contrast  with  his  usual  happy  manner 
ami  cheerful  expression. 


52  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  Oh,  father,'  she  exclaimed,  half  timidly 
as  she  looked  up  into  his  face, '  we  have  all 
been  so  happy  to-day,  and  I  have  learned  my 
lessons  so  well,  have  I  not  Constance  ?' 

'Yes,  dearest,'  replied  the  sister,  'I  can 
praise  you  as  having  been  a  very  obedient 
and  attentive  scholar  to-day.' 

'  Thank  you,  sister  ;  this  I  know  will  make 
father  happy  like  the  rest  of  us — will  it  not, 
father  ?' 

Mr.  Barnwell  sighed  as  he  replied  to 
the  question,  while  his  thoughts  were  other 
wise  occupied. 

«  Yes,  my  child  !' 

'  Father,  what  is  the  matter  ?'  said  the  child 
after  a  short  pause. 

*  The  matter,  Josephine  !'  he  asked  fully 
aroused  from  his  reverie  ; '  and  why  do  you 
ask  that  question  ?' 

'  Because  you  do  not  smile  as  you  used  to, 
and  your  voice  sounded  so  strange  just  now.' 

'  Never  mind,  dearest,  I  love  you  as  much 
as  ever.' 

Constance  saw  the  embarrassment  which 
the  innocent  prattle  of  her  sister  caused  to  her 
father,  and  reminding  her  that  her  practice 


ANNOUNCEMENT.  53 

hour  had  come,  silently  led  her  out  of  the 
room. 

When  she  again  entered,  Mr.  Barnwell  re 
sumed  the  seat  which  he  had  left,  and  sum 
moning  all  his  fortitude  for  the  unpleasant 
task  which  devolved  upon  him,  said — 

*  Thank    you,  Constance,  for  your   ever 
ready  anticipation  of  my  wishes.     In  what  I 
am  now  about  to  say  to  you  it  is  best  that 
we  should  be  alone.     Charles,  may  I  request 
you  to  withdraw,  for  a  few  moments,  to  your 
study?' 

Charles  obeyed  this  intimation  with  readi 
ness,  and  without  anxiety.  So  far  from  sus 
pecting  the  true  motive  of  it,  he  imagined, 
from  certain  intimations  he  had  recently  re 
ceived  from  his  friend,  that  he  had  formally 
proposed  for  his  sister,  and  that  this  was  the 
subject  of  the  private  conference  which  his 
father  wished  to  hold  with  her. 

The  door  dosed,  and  \vith  an  anxious  look 
at  the  countenance  of  his  daughter,  Mr.  Barn- 
\VL-1 1  ln-ir;in — 

*  My  daughter,  I   make  to  you   lirM    an 
announcement,  which  I  fear  will  i^ivc  you, 

lia>  aheacU    ui\rn  me,  much    pain.     I 


54  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

have  requested  Charles'  absence,  because  I 
fear  its  effect  upon  his  too  susceptible  con 
stitution.  It  can  be  more  gently  communi 
cated  at  a  fitter  opportunity,  by  yourself,  per 
haps.' 

The  color  rapidly  fled  from  the  cheek  and 
brow  of  Constance,  and  she  involuntarily  fas 
tened  her  eyes  upon  the  floor. 

With  as  much  firmness  as  was  possible  un 
der  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Barnwell  briefly 
but  distinctly  detailed  the  occurrences  which 
had  taken  place — the  numerous  losses  he  had 
incurred,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  that  day 
been  obliged  to  surrender  all  his  property  into 
the  hands  of  assignees  for  the  benefit  of  his 
creditors. 

'  After  all  my  liabilities  are  met,'  he  con 
cluded,  *  we  shall  have  a  bare  pittance  left, 
hardly  sufficient  to  support  us  in  the  very 
humblest  circumstances.  For  my  part,  I  can 
cheerfully  submit  to  whatever  allotments  God, 
in  his  providence,  shall  see  fit  to  bring  upon 
me.  The  path  of  secure  but  honorable  in 
dustry  is  yet  open  to  me.  But,  my  daughter, 
my  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of  the  poverty 
to  which  you — so  admirably  qualified  to  adorn 


ANNOUNCEMENT.  55 

the  highest  circles,  must  be  reduced  by  these 
sudden  reverses.' 

*  Of  me,  father,'  exclaimed  the  noble  girl, 
as  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  voice 
trembled   with  emotion,  'think   not  of  me. 
With  you  and  aunt,  and  our  dear  brother  and 
•rtcr,  I  can  be  happy,  very,  very  happy,  any 
where.' 

*  Bless  you — God  bless  you,  my  daughter,' 
replied  her  father,  strongly  affected.     '  From 
what  I  know  of  your  character,  I  am  con 
vinced  that  this  determination  is  not  the  off 
spring  of  romantic  sentiment,  which  might 
give  way  at  the  first  rude  breath  of  misfor 
tune,  but  that  it  is  the  deliberate  and  self- 
sustained  determination  of  your  mind.     But 
yet,  Constance,  what  a  cold,  cold  prospect  is 
before  you.' 

'Any  thing  but  that,  dear  father.  You 
know  me  not,  if  you  think  that  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  your  society  I  shall  hereafter,  for  a 
moment,  seriously  regret  the  luxuries  to  which 
1  have  been  accustomed.  Father,  the  home 
will  always  be  bright  where  domestic  affec 
tion,  like  that  which  blesses  ours,  has  a  place. 
And  as  for  Charles' 


56  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'You  have  touched  on  another  string  of 
sorrow,  my  daughter.  •  Charles  has  always 
felt,  more  than  any  of  us,  the  pride  of  station. 
Can  he  stoop  so  easily  to  a  farm-house — or 
perhaps  to  worse  ?' 

'  He  can,  father,'  replied  Constance,  eager 
ly,  '  he  can — he  will.'  Give  him  his  books, 
and  in  our  society,  (for  a  profession,  or  an 
entrance  upon  business,  is  now,  on  every 
account,  out  of  the  question,)  he  will  be 
happy.  His  lightest  literary  labors  will  at 
least  afford  him  the  means  of  supplying  his 
literary  wants  and  ours.  Aunt  Mary  will  be 
happier  in  the  country  than  in  New  York, 
and  little  Josephine's  heart  will  be  gladdened 
by  the  constant  intercourse  with  nature.' 

'  My  daughter,'  added  Mr.  Barnwell,  as  he 
took  her  hand,  and  impressed  a  fervent  kiss 
upon  her  brow,  '  you  have  given  me  new 
energy.  Oh,  how  good  has  our  heavenly 
father  been  to  me,  in  giving  me  such  a  spirit 
in  you.  Strange — but  I  could  now  almost 
weep  for  joy.  The  scenes  through  which  I 
have  passed  this  day  have  tried  me  sorely. 
There  was  a  way  open  of  averting  these  evils : 
even  my  honorable  friends  half  counselled  me 


. 


ANNOUNCEMENT.  57 

1«>  adopt  il  :  but,  my  daughter,  it  was  a  way 
more  than  upon  the  verge  of  dishonesty.  My 
conscience — my  ('hn>tian  principle  would  not 
allow  me  to  adopt  it  In  my  present  feelings 
I  am  more  than  repaid  for  my  adherence  to 
the  strait  path  of  duty.  And  now,  my  daugh 
ter,  you  may  call  in  Charles  and  Josephine, 
and  your  aunt  Mary,  for  I  feel  that  I  now 
have  strength  to  make  the  announcement  to 
them.' 

Charles  received  the  tidings  with  less  of 
emotion  than  Mr.  Barnwell  had  expected. 
At  first,  indeed,  his  manly  lip  quivered,  and 
his  large  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears,  but  one 
glance  at  the  pale  countenance  of  his  beloved 
sister  restored  him,  and  he  felt  almost  asham 
ed  of  his  weakness.  When  his  father  con 
cluded  he  exclaimed  with  enthusiasm — 

*  And  can  I  not  do  something,  father,  for 
our  comfort  in — in  our  poverty  ;  indeed  I  do 
iot  think  we  need  be  ashamed  of  the  word.' 

4  You  will  do  what  you  can,  my  son ;'  but 
my  greatest  happiness  will  consist  in  your 
ninii  iit.  and  if  it  please  God,  in  your 
ation  to  health.  And  what  does  our 
little  Josephine  think  of 


58  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  Oh,  father,  I  for  one  am  not  ashamed  of 
being  poor ;  and  when  we  are  in  the  country 
always,  with  the  trees,  and  the  birds,  and  the 
flowers,  I  shall  be  so  happy,  dear  father. 
When  shall  we  go  ?' 

'Soon,  very  soon,  my  child,  when  the 
spring  comes.  And  now  let  us  have  our 
evening  prayer,  and  then  retire  to  rest.  I 
am  very  weary  with  the  labors  and  anxieties 
of  the  day.' 

Constance  was  again  the  reader  of  the 
evening  Scripture.  She  chose  that  beautiful 
chapter,  the  12th  to  the  Hebrews,  in  which 
the  Apostle  imparts  such  glorious  consolation 
to  the  minds  of  the  disciples,  under  the  pres 
sure  of  their  severe  afflictions.  To  those  who 
heard  it,  on  that  memorable  evening,  around 
that  quiet  fireside,  it  seemed  as  if  an  angel's 
voice  were  speaking  to  them. 

'  If  ye  endure  chastening,  God  dealeth  with 
you  as  with  sons,  for  wrhat  son  is  he  whom 
the  father  chasteneth  not?  We  have  had 
fathers  of  our  flesh  which  corrected  us,  and 
we  gave  them  reverence  ;  shall  we  not  much 
rather  be  in  subjection  to  the  Father  of  Spi 
rits  and  live.  For  they  verily  for  a  few  days 


ANNOUNCEMENT.  59 

chastened  us  after  their  own  pleasure ;  but 
he  for  our  profit,  that  we  might  be  partakers 
of  his  holiness.  Now  no  chastening  for  the 
present  seemeth  to  be  joyous,  but  grievous  ; 
itheless,  afterwards,  it  yieldeth  the 
peaceable  fruits  of  righteousness  unto  them 
which  are  exercised  thereby.  Wherefore, 
lift  up  the  hands  that  hang  down,  and  strength 
en  the  feeble  knees.' 

Under  the  influence  of  this  exalted  conso 
lation,  they  all  knelt  down,  while  Mr.  Barn- 
well  addressed  the  throne  of  grace.  A  bless 
ed  spirit  of  peace  settled  within  every  heart 
as  the  eloquent  words  fell  from  his  fervent 
lips ;  and  the  family  retired  in  possession  of 
a  joy  which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor 
take  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  PROPOSAL. 

Maiden,  need  I  ask, 

I  fear  I  need  not— is  he  dear  to  tliee  ? 

'Tis  well.    But  tell  me,  hast  thou  ever  noted 

Amidst  his  many  shining  qualities, 

Aught  strange  or  singular  ?  HILLHOUSK . 

THINGS  soon  resumed  their  usual  quiet 
course  in  the  well  regulated  house  of  Mr. 
Barnwell.  The  bitterness  of  the  trial  was 
over,  and  the  sustaining  power  of  high  Chris 
tian  principle  soon  manifested  itself  in  the  ease 
by  which  its  possessors  could  descend  to  the 
calm  discussion  and  contemplation  of  the 
most  forbidding  details  of  the  prospect  now 
before  them.  The  creditors  of  Mr.  Barnwell 
were  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  honorable 
conduct  he  had  pursued  in  the  adjustment  of 
their  claims,  and  one  and  all  offered  to  accept 
such  a  diminution  of  their  respective  demands 
as  would  allow  him  a  somewhat  larger  sum 


A   PROPOSAL.  ^    61 

than  ho  had  anticipated  from  the  wreck  of 
his  prosperity.  Still,  however,  in  its  gross 
amount,  it  was  a  bare  pittance,  hardly  secur 
ing  to  him  the  ordinary  comforts  of  life  in  its 
most  obscure  stations.  As  it  was,  he  felt  pro 
foundly  thankful  that  so  much  had  been 
spared,  and  he  could  not  but  esteem  it  as  an 
evidence  of  the  goodness  of  God  that  the  means 
of  supporting  his  family  had  not  been  entire 
ly  swept  away  from  him. 

He  was  enabled,  very  opportunely,  to  pur 
chase  a  small  farm  in  the  vicinity  of  the  city 
on  very  advantageous  terms.  Thither  he  con 
templated  removing  in  the  early  part  of  the 
spring.  A  few  weeks  were  all  that 
necessary  in  order  to  complete  the  arrange 
ment  of  his  affairs. 

A  week  had  elapsed  since  the  family  had 
received  a  visit  from  Edward  Seaman.     He 
had  indeed,  regularly  inquired  after  the  health 
of  its  members  every  morning  on  his  way  to 
the  office,  but  his  evening  calls  seemed  entirely 
suspended.     Somewhat  offended  at  this  appa 
rent  neglect  in  his  friend,  Charles  forbore  to 
verse  with  his  sister  and  parent  upon  the 
probable  reasons;    and   they,  \vliat»\«i   they 
6* 


62  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

might  think  of  it,  did  not  seem  disposed   to 
dwell  upon  the  topic. 

At  length,  as  the  family  were  assembled  in 
the  parlor  one  evening,  engaged  in  their  usual 
pursuits,  Mr.  Seaman  was  announced.  With 
a  half-timid  step  he  advanced  towards  his 
friends,  as  if  conscious  that  his  late  conduct 
required  explanation.  But  the  frank,  open 
smile  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  the  calm  sweet  coun 
tenance  of  Constance,  and  the  pleasurable 
glow  upon  the  cheek  of  Charles,  assured  him 
of  his  accustomed  welcome.  With  no  allu 
sion  to  his  absence,  a  pleasant  hour  passed 
away  in  conversation;  until  he  arose,  and 
with  something  of  embarrassment  requested  a 
few  moments'  private  conversation  with  Mr. 
Barnwell. 

The  father  led  the  way  to  the  study,  and 
without  appearing  to  notice  the  confusion  of 
his  youthful  friend,  opened  the  conversation 
by  some  general  remarks.  But  the  impa 
tience  of  Edward,  notwithstanding  his  embar 
rassment,  disposed  of  these  by  monosyllables 
in  reply,  until  he  opened  the  subject  of  the 
interview  by  an  allusion  to  Constance. 

4  You  cannot  but  have  observed,  my  dear 


A    PROPOSAL. 

sir/  he  began,  'ray  esteem — nay,  my  affec 
tion  for  your  daughter/ 

Mr.  Barn  well,  making  due  allowance  for  the 
lover's  state  of  feeling,  made  no  reply,  and 
allowed  him  to  go  on. 

'  It  is  an  affection,'  proceeded  Edward, 
with  some  hesitation  in  his  tone,  *  which  has 
grown  up  with  the  many  pleasant  years  of 
our  intercourse  since  childhood;  and  I  now 
Ire!  that  she  is  essential  to  my  future  happi 
ness.  I  have  therefore  come  to  the  conclu 
sion,'  he  added,  in  quite  a  business-like  man 
ner,  '  to  propose  for  her  hand.' 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Barmvell  shaded  his 
forehead  with  his  hands.  In  the  present  state 
of  his  affairs,  this  proposal  from  one  who  had 
hitherto  stood  on  the  same  level  with  his 
laughter,  but  now  infinitely  above  her  in 
point  of  wealth,  was  calculated  to  surprise 
him,  to  say  the  lca>t.  Although  an  intii 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  Edward's  fa 
ther,  made  him  conscious  that  he  was  above 
the  ordinary  considerations  which  so  often  in 
duce  parents  to  sacrifice  the  happiness  of  their 
children  to  the  amassing  of  wealth  on  their 
Ml',  he  yet  felt  doubtful  whether  the  son 
had  made  the  father  a  party  to  his  intended 


64  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

proposal.  As  these  thoughts  passed  through 
his  mind,  he  replied, 

'You  must  be  aware,  Edward,  of  the 
change  which  a  few  days  have  produced  in 
our  circumstances.' 

'  I  know  it  all,  my  dear  sir,'  replied  Ed 
ward  ;  '  and  I  value  your  friendship  the  more 
on  account  of  the  highly  honorable  conduct 
you  have  pursued.' 

'  But  your  father,  Edward,  is  he  aware  of 
this  proposal  ?' 

'  He  is,  sir,  fully ;  and  I  have  his  approba 
tion  and  encouragement  in  the  proposal  I  have 
made  to  you.' 

*  You  have  taken  me  somewhat  by  surprise, 
Edward,'  replied  the  father,  '  but  so  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  you  have  my  full  permission  to 
prosecute  your  suit  with  my  daughter.  You 
know  how  much  I  value  her  happiness,  and 
that  there  are  no  earthly  considerations  to 
which  I  would  sacrifice  it.  Upon  her  affec 
tions,  or  her  views  in  regard  to  marriage,  I 
shall  never  lay  any  restraint.  Have  you  rea 
son  to  believe  that  my  daughter  is  aware  of 
your  intentions  ?' 

'  None,  in  the  least,  sir  j  my  manner  has,  I 


A  PROPOSAL.  65 

know,  been  sufficiently  guarded.  I  cannot 
hut  think  and  hope  that  she  knows  that  I  love 
her ;  and  I  have  sometimes  been  inclined  to 
hope  that  I  am  not  altogether  indifferent  to 
her.  With  your  consent  I  shall  seek  an  in 
terview.' 

*  You  have  my  consent,  Edward  ;  and  let 
me  assure  you,  that  if  her  feelings  are  engag 
ed  on  your  behalf,  I  shall  be  proud  to  ac 
knowledge  you  in  the  relation  of  her  accept 
ed  suitor.' 

'  Enough,  sir — and  I  thank  you  for  your 
frankness.  This  interview  I  shall  seek  in  the 
morning.  In  the  mean  time,  it  might  prevent 
some  embarrassment  to  us  both,  if  you  would 
hint  to  her  the  subject  of  this  conversation. 
Please  present  my  adieus  to  the  family  below, 
— in  my  present  state  of  feeling  it  might  not 
be  prudent  for  me  to  meet  them  again  this 
evening.  Adieu,  sir,  and  God  bless  you.  I 
shall  call  at  twelve  in  the  morning.' 

Before  retiring  to  rest,  Mr.  Barnwell  de 
tained  Constance  in  the  drawing-room,  after 
the  other  members  of  the  family  had  retired. 
He  then  mentioned  the  proposal  which  he 
li;td  received  from  Mr.  Seaman. 


66  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  Rest  assured,  my  daughter,'  he  said  in 
conclusion,  '  that  in  this  important  matter  I 
desire  you  to  act  entirely  in  accordance  with 
your  own  judgment.' 

'  My  father,'  replied  Constance  with  much 
emotion, '  I  feel  that  I  cannot  speak  with  you 
on  this  subject,  as  calmly  as  I  ought  to  speak 
to-night.  But  I  owe  it  to  you  to  mention  that 
I  have  one  objection,  which  I  think  we  will 
both  feel  to  be  a  serious  one,  and  that  is  on 
the  score  of  his  religious  principles. 

'  His  religious  principles !'  repeated  Mr. 
Barnwell,  in  evident  surprise. 

'  Yes,  father,  I  am  sincerely  pained  to  learn 
from  the  tenor  of  several  conversations  which 
I  have  of  late  held  with  him,  that  his  reli 
gious  principles  are  not  at  all  fixed.  Indeed, 
I  fear  that  he  is  inclined  to  scepticism.' 

'  To  scepticism  !'  again  echoed  Mr.  Barn- 
well — '  Constance,  you  surprise  me  indeed. 
Of  this  I  had  not  dreamed.  I  knew,  indeed, 
that  he  had  never  made  a  profession  of  re 
ligion,  but  in  all  my  intercourse  with  him  I 
have  discovered  nothing  but  the  most  sincere 
respect,  as  I  believed  it,  for  Christianity  and 
all  its  institutions.' 


A  PROPOSAL.  67 

'  I  will  not  pronounce  definitely  on  the  sub 
ject,  father — indeed,  I  cannot  do  so  in  justice 
to  Edward.  But  on  this  point,  I  must,  in  our 
interview  to-morrow,  use  with  him  all  Chris 
tian  sincerity.' 

*  Certainly,'  he  replied — *  it  is  what  I  ex 
pect  from  you  ;  and  I  confidently  commit  the 
whole  matter  to  your  hands.  So  good  night, 
my  daughter.' 

And  they  separated  for  the  night. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
A  MOTHER'S  LETTER. 

If  aught  of  goodness  or  of  grace 

Be  mine,  her's  be  the  glory ; 
She  led  me  on  in  wisdom's  path, 

And  set  the  light  before  me. 

WITHIN  her  chamber,  long  after  the  last 
sound  of  her  father's  footstep  had  ceased  to 
fall  upon  her  ear,  sat  Constance  Barnwell  in 
deep  thought.  The  brilliant  rays  of  the  moon 
streamed  through  the  openings  of  the  upper 
blinds,  and  fell  with  checkered  light  upon 
the  carpeted  floor,  and  the  chaste  furniture  of 
the  room.  Her  lamp  stood  unlit,  upon  the 
small  reading  table  upon  which  one  arm 
gracefully  rested.  The  dim  light  of  the  room, 
slightly  relieved  by  the  red  rays  from  the  coals 
in  the  grate,  served  to  enhance  the  graceful 
ness  of  her  figure ;  the  quiet  and  exquisite 
loveliness  of  her  countenance  yet  retaining 
the  flush  which  her  father's  conversation  had 
occasioned.  Now  and  then,  a  tear  would 


A  MOTHER'S  LETTER.  69 

start,  as  it  were,  unbidden  from  her  eye,  hast 
ily  brushed  away,  yet  returning,  as  if  her  bo 
som  were  stirred  by  sorrowful  emotion* 

No  eye  but  His  who  watcheth  liis  children 
alway,  saw  the  emotion  thus  manifested,  and 
He,  also,  saw  the  conflict  which  was  going  on 
within,  between  deep,  fervent,  unalterable 
love,  and  sacred  duty. 

Constance  loved  Edward  Seaman  with  a 
love  of  the  depth  and  strength  of  which,  until 
within  a  few  days,  she  herself  had  been  un 
conscious.  Their  intercourse  had  been  to  her 
as  a  pleasant  and  lovely  dream ;  gradually 
had  her  feelings  of  affection  for  him  been 
deepened  and  strengthened ;  and  every  suc 
ceeding  visit  had  added  new  charms  to  his 
character  and  society.  These  feelings  had 
grown  up  silently  in  the  secret  chambers  of 
her  bosom,  without  notice,  for  the  most  part, 
or  questioning  of  their  object  and  meaning. 
But  the  conversation  in  which  they  had  en 
gaged  at  his  last  visit,  had  awakened  her  to 
a  full  sense  of  the  nature  of  her  feelings  to- 
u.'.uK  IT'in.  The  peculiar  and  pnwriiul  anx 
iety  which  filled  her  mind,  after  the  casual 
expression  then  made  of  his  religious  opinions, 
7 


70  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

disclosed  to  her  the  interest  which  she  felt  in 
his  principles,  his  sentiments,  and  his  feelings 
— in  short,  of  the  empire  which  he  had  ob 
tained  over  her  own  heart.  But,  how  pain 
ful  were  the  doubts  and  fears  attending  this 
revelation  ?  She  had  long  cherished  the  hope 
that  his  regular  and  respectful  attention  to  the 
outward  and  public  duties  of  religion,  had  im 
pressed  his  heart  with  a  sense  of  its  personal 
value  and  importance.  She  flattered  herself 
that  she  discerned  in  him  the  elements  of  high 
religious  character,  and  she  had  entertained 
the  pleasing  anticipation  that  she  herself 
might  be  made  the  humble  instrument  of  lead 
ing  him  to  the  altar  of  his  God  and  Savior. 
How  coldly,  amid  such  hopes,  had  his  words 
fallen  upon  her  ear — how  bitterly  had  the  fer 
vent  wishes  of  her  soul  been  blighted. 

And  yet  she  could  not  believe  that  he  had 
intended  to  express  himself  so  strongly  as  the 
inferences  which  she  had  drawn  from  his  lan 
guage,  would  warrant.  Again  and  again, 
she  recalled  all  that  he  had  said — patiently 
did  she  weigh  every  word,  until  the  dimness 
of  uncertainty  rested  upon  it  all,  and  amid 
hope  and  fear,  she  committed  it  to  God,  and 
to  the  future. 


A  MOTHER'S  LETTH..  71 

But  the  morrow  was  to  bring  a  scene  of 
trial,  for  which  she  felt  feebly  prepared.  In 
a  few  moments,  and  by  a  few  words  it  would 
be  in  her  power  to  determine  her  own  future 
happiness  or  misery — to  dispel,  for  ever,  the 
f  >nd  dream  in  which  she  had  so  long  indulged, 
or  to  give  a  reality  to  its  sweetest  visions. 

*  But  no,'  she  whispered  to  herself, '  if  it  is 
as  I  fear,  better  it  is  that  I  should  at  once  re 
sign  these  too  long  cherished  hopes,  than 
sacrifice  my  own  Christian  character,  or  place 
my  happiness  in  the  keeping  of  one  whose 
religious  principles  and  sympathies  are  so 
widely  different  from  my  own.  The  heart 
which  is  tainted  by  scepticism,  has  lost  its 
preserving  principle.  By  slow,  but  sure  de 
grees,  the  curse  will  gain  upon  it,  until  it  be 
comes  completely  corrupted  with  callousness, 
selfishness,  and  indifference.  But  can  I  fear 
this  of  Edward  Seaman  '.  Is  such  a  moral 
state  possible  to  one  of  such  noble  and  gen 
erous  principles— such  kind  and  ardent  sus 
ceptibilities — such  rare  strength  and  gentle 
ness  of  soul  combined  V 

Her  eye  fell,  by  chance,  upon  her  mother's 
portrait.  In  thr  calm  and  bright  moonlight. 


72  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

a  heavenly  radiance  seemed  to  be  spread  over 
the  beautiful  and  expressive  features,  and  a 
semblance  of  life  was  given  to  the  serene  and 
placid  eye.  The  glance  inspired  her  with  a 
new  purpose. 

'  My  mother's  letter,'  she  exclaimed,  as  she 
arose  and  kindled  her  lamp, — '  surely  it  was 
intended  for  such  an  hour  as  this.' 

With  an  eager  and  trembling  hand  she 
unlocked  a  private  drawer  hi  her  writing- 
desk,  and  took  from  it  a  folded  sheet  of  paper, 
carefully  sealed.  The  tears  again  start 
ed  to  her  eye,  as  she  dwelt  upon  the  oft- 
perused  inscription, '  To  my  Daughter,'  in  the 
handwriting  of  her  sainted  parent.  During 
her  last  sickness,  when  separated  from  her 
beloved  Constance,  who  was  then  at  a  dis 
tant  boarding-school,  this  letter  had  been  pen 
ned  and  delivered  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Barnwell,  with  the  wish  that  it  should  not  be 
opened  until  the  subject  to  which  it  referred 
— the  choice  of  a  companion  for  life — should 
be  brought  before  the  mind  of  her  child.  She 
had  received  many  other  epistles  from  her 
mother  while  at  school,  expressive  of  her 
wishes  and  views,  in  regard  to  her  improve- 


A  MOTHER'S  LETTEK.  73 

raent  of  the  high  advantages  she  enjoyed,  con- 
containing  salutary  advice  in  regard  to  the 
formation  of  her  character,  and  the  direction  of 
her  conduct  in  after  life.  These  admonitions 
she  had  sacredly  treasured  up  and  faithfully 
observed  ;  and  experience  had  long  ago  taught 
her  their  high  value. 

With  streaming  eyes  Constance  sat  down 
to  the  perusal  of  this  last  testimonial  of  her 
mother's  love.  It  was  dated  at  Key  West, 
the  place  of  her  death,  whither  she  had  been 
obliged  to  resort  in  the  winter  of  1832,  for 
the  restoration  of  her  health. 

"  From  my  sick  chamber,  my  beloved  child,  I 
send  to  you  these  last  words  of  advice  which,  in  all 
probability,  you  will  receive  from  me,  for  I  feel  my 
constitution  gradually,  but  surely,  sinking  under 
the  disease  with  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  visit 
me.  To  day  I  feel  unwonted  vigor ;  whether  it  is 
the  presage  of  improving  health,  or  the  deceitful 
harbinger  of  speedy  death,  is  known  to  God  alone. 
For  the  former  I  cannot  hope.  Of  the  latter  I  am 
in  continual  expectation.  The  influence  of  this 
delightful  climate  has  enabled  me  to  undertake  a 
task  to  which  a  week  ago  my  strength  would  have 
been  entirely  inadequate. 

"  There  is  one  subject,  my  daughter,  which  I 
have  not  alluded  to  in  the  many  letters  you  have 
7* 


74  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

received  from  me  during  the  period  of  our  separa 
tion,  as  I  wished  to  reserve  it  to  the  last.  This 
subject  is  the  choice  of  a  husband.  You  know 
what  are  my  views  of  the  character,  the  duties, 
and  the  earthly  destiny  of  woman.  I  have  already 
described  to  you  the  standard  of  intellectual  and 
moral  attainment,  and  religious  character,  to  which 
every  well  educated  Christian  lady  should  aspire. 
What  I  have  said  on  these  topics  I  feel  assured 
that  you  will  not  esteem  lightly.  My  counsels 
have  been  sanctified  by  prayer,  and  I  trust  they 
will  be  brought  home  to  your  heart  and  deeply  im 
pressed  there  by  that  Divine  Spirit,  whose  guiding 
and  strengthening  influences  I  have  so  often  sup 
plicated  on  your  behalf.  What  I  am  now  about  to 
say  has  been  very  strongly  suggested  by  the  melan 
choly  death  of  a  beautiful  and  highly  accomplished 
young  lady,  who  arrived  here  but  a  few  months 
since,  and  whose  remains  were  yesterday  com 
mitted  to  a  lonely  grave.  To  her  a  broken  heart, 
the  result  of  deep  and  true  affection  wasted  upon 
an  unworthy  object,  was  the  cause  of  ruined  health 
and  an  early  death.  Her  history  is  a  melancholy 
one,  but  how  sad  is  it  to  think  that  it  is  but  one 
among  thousands  daily  transpiring. 

"  A  woman,  my  child,  can  never  safely  trifle  with 
her  affections.  Her  love  is  far  too  deep  and  too 
strong  when  once  thoroughly  aroused,  to  '  bend 
lightly  to  other  tendencies,'  than  those  which  it 
has  recieved  once  and  forever.  When  a  woman 
surrenders  her  heart,  she  surrenders  her  whole 
earthly  existence  to  the  keeping  of  the  object  of 


A  Mi>lH!.i:V  LETTER.  75 

her  affections.  It  is  true  that  indifference,  harsh 
ness,  infidelity,  may  crush  the  affections  where 
they  spring;  but  in  this  case,  we  can  look  for  no 
genuine  after-growth ;  the  hand  of  the  ruthless 
destroyer  leaves  after  it,  a  hard  and  blasted  surface, 
which  the  bright  flowers  and  the  gentle  dews  of 
love  can  never  again  revisit. 

"  How  important  then — how  solemnly  important 
is  it,  that  her  affections  should  be  given  to  a  wor 
thy  object.  How  important  that  he,  into  whose 
keeping  she  resigns  her  earthly  destiny,  should  be 
one  of  congenial  spirit — a  being  capable  of  the 
self-sacrifice  which  the  married  state  continually 
enacts,  of  tender  and  generous  susceptibilities,  and 
above  all,  of  exalted  moral  character.  Without  the 
latter,  indeed,  every  other  qualification  should  be 
esteemed  insufficient.  With  it,  even  a  cold  and 
feeble  heart  may  confer  happiness. 

"  It  is  upon  this  latter  qualification  alone  that  I 
would  speak,  as  I  trust  that  your  own  sense  of 
what  would  prove  most  essential  to  your  happiness 
in  regard  to  the  others,  will  suggest  all  that  I 
could  say.  But,  my  dear  Constance,  I  trust  that 
you  will  never  be  induced  to  listen  to  the  addresses 
of  a  suitor  who  does  not  possess  high  moral — nay, 
I  must  add,  religious  character.  Truly  I  blush  for 
my  sex,  when  I  think  how  little  these  qualifications 
are  regarded.  Well  has  it  been  said,  that  if  the 
worldly  find  the  wealth,  and  the  intellectual  tin- 
jutclligence,  which  they  sock  in  a  companion, 
there  are  few  who  will  n«i  -hut  their  e\c-  in  wil 
ful  and  convenient  blindness  to  the  want  of  such 


76  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

recommendations.  Surely,  my  daughter,  if  the 
voice  of  experience  in  this  matter  were  regarded  at 
all,  there  would  be  throughout  female  society,  an 
instantaneous  recoil  from  the  guilty  indifference 
now  so  generally  maintained. 

"  But,  as  a  Christian  and  a  mother,  I  would  press 
upon  you  my  dying  counsel — never  to  accept  as 
your  husband,  a  man  in  whose  religious  character 
you  cannot  place  confidence.  Depend  upon  it,  that 
it  is  a  fearful  risk  even  for  one  of  most  ardent  piety, 
to  link  herself  with  one  who  is  careless  or  hostile 
in  regard  to  heartfelt  religion.  But  for  one  whose 
religious  character  has  not  yet  acquired  that  firm 
ness  which  is  generally  imparted  only  by  actual 
struggle  with  the  temptations  and  cares  of  the 
world,  what  can  we  expect  but  that  the  example 
of  the  husband  should  become  all-powerful  in 
eradicating  all  true  Christian  principle  and  pious 
feeling  from  the  soul  ? 

"  And  when  the  wife  does  remain  firm  inhe  r  pro 
fession,  and  true  to  Her  vows,  who  can  tell  the  un- 
happiness  she  daily  feels,  springing  from  the  cold 
ness  or  the  contempt  of  sacred  things  manifested 
by  her  husband  !  For  grief  of  this  nature  there  is 
no  earthly  cure.  The  wounded  spirit  must  bleed 
on  inwardly  and  silently,  until  death  shall  heal  it. 

"  It  is  but  little,  my  daughter,  that  my  failing 
strength  will  allow  me  to  add,  but  I  feel  assured 
that  the  suggestions  I  have  made  will  be  carried 
out  in  your  own  reflections.  I  have  signified  to 
your  father  that  it  is  my  wish  that  this  letter  should 
not  be  opened  by  you  until  there  was  a  necessity  of 


A  MOTHER'S  LETTKK.  77 

your  coming  to  a  decision  in  regard  to  the  subject 
of  which  it  treats.  Now,  therefore,  while  deliberat 
ing  upon  this,  the  most  important  transaction  of 
your  life,  let  me  direct  you  to  commit  the  subject 
in  faith  and  prayer  to  God,  asking  of  him  the 
knowledge  and  strength  requisite  to  enable  you  to 
come  to  a  decision.  To  God's  gracious  keeping,  I 
commend  you,  my  beloved  daughter.  The  Lord 
bless  you  and  keep  you,  the  Lord  cause  his  face  to 
shine  upon  you,  and  give  you  peace  now  and  for- 
fvermore." 

*  How  sincerely  do  I  rejoice,  my  sainted 
mother,'  said  Constance,  as  she  finished  the 
perusal  of  this  letter  for  the  second  time,  *  that 
my  own  determinations  are  so  much  in  uni 
son  with  your  advice.' 

She  knelt  down  by  her  bedside,  in  the 
silence  of  her  chamber,  and  fervently  suppli 
cated  the  blessing  of  God,  to  enable  her  to 
<-arry  into  execution  the  resolution  she  had 
formed.  As  she  arose  from  her  knees,  she 
cast  another  tearful  glance  towards  the  por 
trait,  :is  it'  rxp.rtinir  to  read  in  it  the  approval 
vlu  k;d  sonirht  ;  and  then  happy  in  the  con- 
isness  of  duty  performed,  she  sought  her 
pillow,  and  was  soon  wrapped  in  peaceful 
sluml 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   PROPOSAL   ANSWERED. 

Marriage  is  a  matter  of  more  worth 
Than  to  be  dealt  in  by  attorneyship. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

TWELVE  o'clock  came,  and  with  it,  on  the 
wings  of  love,  came  Edward  Seaman.  He 
found  Constance  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
simply  attired  in  her  ordinary  morning-dress, 
and  engaged  with  her  work.  She  had  never 
appeared  to  him  so  lovely,  so  engaging,  as  at 
this  moment  His  first  glance  assured  him 
that  Mr.  Barnwell  had  been  faithful  to  his 
promise,  and  that  he  had  already  opened  the 
way  for  a  frank  communication  of  his  feelings 
and  purposes. 

'  May  I  hope,  Constance — Miss  Barnwell 
— but  you  will  perhaps  permit  me  to  call  you 
Constance — that  the  object  of  my  visit  is  not 
altogether  disagreeable  to  you.' 

To  these  words,  hastily  uttered,  as  he  took 
his  seat  by  her  side,  she  replied  only  by  a 


THE  PROPOSAL.  79 

blush.  Encouraged  by  this,  Edward  ventured 
to  take  her  hand  in  his  own.  She  did  not 
withdraw  it. 

'You  have  already,  perhaps,  more  than 
suspected,  dear  Constance,' — he  hesitated  at 
his  own  boldness,  but  went  on — '  that  my 
feelings  towards  you  are  deeper  than  those  of 
a  mere  acquaintance,  or  a  friend.  May  I 
hope  for  acceptance  in  the  light  of  a  lover — 
can  you— can  I  hope  for  an  interest,  as  such,  in 
your  affections  V 

With  the  impulse  of  affection,  yet  with  vir 
gin  modesty,  Constance  raised  her  beautiful 
eyes  to  the  countenance  of  her  lover.  With 
difficulty,  she  replied, — 

*  Christian   sincerity,    Mr.    Seaman — nay, 
Edward — obliges  me  to  confess,  in  requital  of 
the  frank  and   honorable  avowal  you  have 
made  to  my  father  and  myself,  that  my  feel 
ings  towards  you' — and  she  hesitated. 

*  Say  but  one  word  more,'  exclaimed  the 
ardent  youth,  sinking  upon  his  knee,  '  and  I 
am  supremely  happy,  or  supremely  miserable. 
May  I,  dear  Constance,  hope  for  a  return  of 
affection  V 

1  Nay,  sir,  rise,  I  beg,'  she  added,  with  an 


80  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

embarrassed  smile,  yet  in  a  firm  tone,  c  I  can 
not  allow  this.' 

'  I  will  deal  frankly  with  you,  Edward,'  she 
added,  as  he  arose  and  resumed  his  seat,  still 
retaining  her  hand.  '  You  are  not  indifferent 
to  me — far  from  it.  You  hold  a  deep — too 
deep  a  place,  I  fear,  in  my  affections.' 

*  You  fear,  Constance,  too  deep  a  place  ?' 

'  Pardon  me :  I  fear  I  shall  give  you  pain. 
But  while  I  confess  that  your  love  is  not  un 
requited,  there  are  circumstances  which  will, 
I  think,  present  a  barrier  to  your  hopes.' 

The  effort,  intensely  painful,  was  too  much 
for  her.  She  could  not  restrain  her  emotion, 
but  fell,  almost  insensible,  into  the  arms  of  her 
lover. 

Agitated  by  the  liveliest  joy,  strangely 
mingled  with  a  dread  of  hearing  more,  Ed 
ward  respectfully  supported  her  head  upon 
his  arm,  until  she  recovered  in  a  measure  her 
composure,  and  then  added,  with  a  look  that 
thrilled  to  his  very  heart, — 

'  It  would  be  weakness — not  to  say  guilt — 
for  me  to  attempt  to  conceal  from  you  the 
feelings  I  entertain  towards  you.  But  I 
must — I  must  be  plain  with  you — and  if  my 
words  seem  harsh' 


THE  PROPOSAL.  81 

'  Harsh,  Constance — after  what  I  have 
heard,  nothing  can  seem  harsh  from  your 
lips.' 

*  There  is  one  point,  Edward,  which  has 
caused  me  sincere  pain.  You  recollect  our 
conversation  on  religious  truth  a  few  evenings 
since.  Did  I  do  you  injustice,  when  I  inferred 
that  you  had  adopted  the  views  of  the  so- 
called  rationalists  in  religion — in  short,  that 
your  religious  principles  are  unsettled,  and 
especially  so,  in  regard  to  what  Christians 
generally  consider  the  cardinal  doctrines  of 
Christianity,  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  the 
atonement,  and  those  connected?' 

'  Constance,'  replied  her  lover,  *  I  will  not 
attempt  to  impose  upon  you  by  concealment 
or  subterfuge.  On  those  points,  I  confess,  my 
principles,  if  principles  they  can  be  called, 
are  not  in  unison  with  what  I  take  to  be  your 
own.' 

A  slight  shudder  passed  through  the  frame 
of  the  lovely  girl  as  she  heard  this  frank  an 
nouncement,  and  she  replied — 

'  I  thank  you,  Edward,  for  your  sincerity 
and  frankness,  in  this  matter.     Will  you  par 
don  me  if  I  add,  that  the  knowledge  of  this 
8 


82  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

fact  will  prevent  me  from  entertaining  your 
proposals  ?' 

'  Can  it  be,  Constance,  that  a  slight  differ 
ence  upon  speculative  points  of  faith,  will 
thus  influence  your  decision  ?  My  opinions 
have  been  the  result  of  circumstances,  per 
haps — they  are  not  firm,  for  my  studies  have 
been  directed  to  far  different  topics — but' — 

'  But,  Edward,  I  know  what  you  would 
add.  My  duty  forbids  me,  however,  to  en 
trust  the  happiness  of  my  life  to  one,  whose 
religious  principles  are  unsettled,  and  whose 
religious  feelings  are  feeble.  But,  Edward,' 
she  added,  as  she  observed  the  paleness 
that  overspread  his  countenance, '  I  have  given 
you  great  pain,'  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  she  spoke. 

'  Admirable  woman,'  said  her  lover,  slightly 
turning  away  his  face  to  conceal  his  emotion. 
f  You  have  taught  me  a  lesson  which  I  shall 
never  forget — henceforth  I  cannot  but  know 
and  feel  something  of  the  loveliness  of  prac 
tical  piety,  a  thing  which  I  have  sometimes 
ridiculed,  and  whose  existence  I  have  alwrays 
more  than  half  doubted.  May  I  hope,  Con 
stance,  for  an  interest  in  your  prayers.  I  am 


THE  PROPOSAL.  83 

not  ashamed  to  ask  it,  for  I  can  now  realize 
the  value  of  such  intercession.' 

*  My  prayers,  Edward  1 — if  the  prayers  of 
one  so  sinful,  can   avail    before  the   throne 
of  Grace,  have  been  yours — but  permit  me 
to  add,  that  the  subject  must  be  made  a  per 
sonal  one.     A  cordial  and  earnest  heart — an 
open,   teachable,  and   childlike    spirit,  God 
will  bless  with  the  communication  of  his  sav 
ing  truth.' 

*  And  yet,  how  to  begin,'  replied  the  lover. 
Constance  you  can,  you  will  direct  me.' 

1  Your  first  resort,  then,  must  be  to  the  word 
of  God  with  prayer — there  are  certain  reli 
gious  works  which  I  could  recommend  to  you, 
but  I  trust  you  will  feel  disposed  to  go  at 
once  to  the  Divine  fountain  rather  than  to  the 
streams.' 

They  parted  that  night — the  one  to  find 
consolation,  strength,  and  peace  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  painful  duty  conscientiously  dis 
charged — the  other  to  seek  for  himself  at  the 
throne  of  Grace,  a  portion  of  that  spirit  of 
religion,  whose  influences  upon  the  clia:  - 
r  and  heart  of  her  he  loved,  he  could  not 
l.iii  deeply  admire. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

THE  NEW  HOME. 
'  Guarded  by  love,  and  blessed  by  happy  hearts.' 

IT  was  a  brilliant  morning  in  the  latter  end 
of  May.  A  beautiful  spring  had  suddenly 
succeeded  to  a  long  and  cold  winter,  and  the 
foliage  and  flowers  already  wore  their  deep 
est  green  and  brightest  hues.  On  the  banks 
of  the  Hudson,  a  few  miles  from  the  city 
of  New  York,  was  the  small,  but  pleasant 
farm  which  Mr.  Barnwell  had  purchased,  and 
where  he  now  dwelt.  It  consisted  of  a  few 
acres  of  the  most  fertile  land,  extending  for 
some  distance  along  the  shore,  and  stretching 
back  with  a  gentle  undulating  rise,  relieved 
by  a  pleasant  little  valley,  to  a  range  of  hills 
which  formed  its  eastern  boundary.  Around 
it  to  the  north  and  south,  were  tracts  of  wood 
land  and  green  meadow,  finely  intermingled 
with  cultivated  fields  and  the  gardens  of  the 
proprietors  and  tenantry. 

The  farm-house  stood  at  some  quarter  of  a 


THE  NEW  HOME.  85 

mile's  distance  from  the  shore,  almost  com 
pletely  embosomed  by  trees.  The  passengers 
upon  the  river  might  catch,  at  intervals,  be 
tween  the  trees,  glimpses  of  its  grey  walls, 
huge  dormer  windows,  and  woodbine-covered 
portico  ;  of  the  neat  little  lawn,  edged  with 
flower-beds  in  front,  and  of  the  rustic  sum 
mer-houses  flanking  either  termination  of  the 
footpath  that  wound  through  the  grove  to  the 
door  of  the  house.  In  the  whole  aspect  of 
the  place  there  was  a  combination  of  the 
most  beautiful  rural  scenery,  with  complete 
retirement  and  repose. 

In  the  early  morning — for  the  sun  had 
scarcely  yet  risen  above  the  eastern  hills — 
Mr.  Barnwell  and  Constance  sat  upon  the 
seats  of  the  portico,  while  Josephine,  blithe 
and  happy  as  the  spring  birds  that  twittered 
in  the  branches  above  her  head,  was  diligent 
ly  employed  in  planting  some  flower  seeds  in 
a  bed  of  newly  prepared  earth,  assigned  by 
her  father  to  her  own  purposes. 

An  expression  of  happiness  and  content 

lingered  upon  the  countenances  of  both  father 

and  daughter,  as  they  watched  the  motions 

of  the  cheerful  little  girl  at  her  pleasant  work. 

8* 


86  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

To  the  mind  of  Constance  the  scene  strongly 
recalled  the  days  of  her  own  sunny  childhood, 
when,  in  the  long  summers, — the  seasons  of 
retirement  from  the  city, — she  had  been  equally 
happy  in  similar  employments  under  the  eye 
of  her  mother.  The  same  interesting  recol 
lections  dwelt  in  the  mind  of  her  father ;  and 
as  his  eye  returned  from  the  graceful  and  ac 
tive  form  of  Josephine  to  the  countenance  of 
her  sister,  he  said,  with  a  smile — 

4  Really,  Constance,  I  have  hardly  yet  been 
able  to  realize  our  altered  circumstances. 
Were  it  not  that  I  occasionally  miss  my  for 
mer  employments  in  the  counting-house,  I 
should  be  inclined  to  pronounce  the  transac 
tions  and  occurrences  of  the  few  months  just 
past  as  dreams.' 

*  Are  we  not  as  happy  as  we  ever  were, 
father  ?'  said  Constance,  in  reply. — '  I  mean, 
as  we  ever  have  been  since  the  death  of  my 
mother.     Yes,  we  are,  and  I  knew  it  would 
be  so.     How  strongly  does  this  place  remind 
me  of  our  old  country  seat  in  New  Jersey. 
It  is  equally  retired,   equally  rural,  and,  I 
think,  all  the  better  for  being  humbler.' 

*  Nay,  my  daughter,'  replied  Mr.  Barnwell, 


THE  NEW  HOME.  87 

with  a  smile, '  you  have  a  faculty  of  gilding 
poverty.' 

%  A  peaceful  mind  and  happy  heart  can 
hide  it,  lather — rob  it  of  all  its  roughness  and 
darkness,  and  throw  around  it  the  sunshine  of 
content,  without  which  a  paradise  would  be 
a  wilderness.' 

At  this  moment  Charles  issued  from  the 
door  with  a  cheerful  salute,  and  a  self  accus 
ing  complaint  of  his  own  indolence. 

He  was  much  improved  in  his  appearance. 
His  countenance  had  lost  much  of  its  pale 
and  sickly  hue  ;  his  eye  shone  with  a  softer 
and  more  healthy  lustre,  and  his  step  had  ac 
quired  firmness  and  vigor. 

*  What,  Charles — so  early  astir  for  an  in 
valid  !  But  you  are  right,  my  son.  There  is 
health  in  this  bright  sunshine  and  balmy  air. 
What  say  you  for  a  walk  along  the  shore  ? 
Constance,  I  am  sure,  will  accompany  us ; 
and  who  can  tell  whether  we  may  not  find 
for  you  a  subject  for  a  new  poem,  or  descrip 
tive  essay,  in  our  rambles.  To  be  sure  my 
own  imagination  has  had  its  day,  and  I  can 
not  say  much  for  its  strength  or  its  brilliancy, 
but  it  may  serve  to  chasten  the  flights  of  your 
own.' 


88  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Notwithstanding  his  own  occasional  self- 
delusions,  Mr.  Barnwell  was  far  from  feeling, 
as  yet,  happy  in  his  new  abode.    The  aching 
void  which  the  absence  of  his  accustomed  bu 
siness  engagements  had  left  in  his  bosom  was 
not  fully  occupied  by  the  calm  and  leisurely 
employments  of  his  farm.  There  was  a  yearn 
ing  for  the  crowded  streets,  the  exchange  and 
the  counting  room ;  a  yearning  which  daily 
diminished,  indeed,  but  which  he  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  dismiss.     At  times  the  change 
in  his  circumstances  would  weigh  upon  his 
mind  with  peculiar  force ;  and  as  he  felt  his 
mental  energies  sinking  under  these  visita 
tions  of  sorrow,  he  would  look  forward  to  the 
future — a  future,  in  which  his  children,  bred 
in  affluence,  might  be  exposed  to  all  the  evils 
of  poverty — with    an   aching   heart.      But 
his   Christian   principles   soon  obtained   the 
mastery  over   these  suggestions  of  the  man 
and  the  father.     In  such  moments,  the  soci 
ety,  the  sweet  angelic  serenity  and  holy  con 
fidence  of  his   daughter  were  invaluable  to 
him — they  brought  hope  again  to  his  heart 
and  composure  to  his  spirit.     In  a  thousand 
little  ways,  and  by  a  thousand  delicate  atten- 


THE  NEW  HOME.  89 

tions,  seemingly  trifling  in  themselves,  but  all 
valuable  as  the  efforts  of  a  daughter's  love, 
and  the  contributions  to  a  lather's  comfort, 
she  sought  to  beguile  and  relieve  those  hours 
which,  for  want  of  active  employment,  would 
else  have  hung  heavily  upon  his  hands.  These 
ministrations  of  love  were  blessed  in  the  gra 
dual  but  sure  production  of  the  results  to 
which  they  trnili-d.  His  daughter  soon  had 
the  satisfaction  of  witnessing  that  her  efforts 
were  not  in  vain.  Day  by  day  his  spirits 
acquired  more  of  their  former  tone,  and  the 
intervals  of  ennui  were  less  frequent  and  pro 
tracted. 

This  morning  he  felt  peculiarly  happy.  A 
day  of  storms,  during  which  the  family  had 
been  confined  to  the  farm-house,  was  suc 
ceeded  by  the  brilliant  dawn  and  balmy 
morning  I  have  described.  There  seemed 
to  be  a  spirit  of  joy  and  love  in  every  created 
thin*:.  Kven  the  bright  leaves  as  they  flashed 
in  the  early  sunbeams,  the  dew  upon  the  rich 
green  grass,  and  the  silvery-crested  ripples  of 
the  river,  might  have  been  imagined  to  par 
take  of  tin-  stirring  spirit  of  life,  which  had 
issued  with  the  sunrise  from  the  golden  gates 
of  heaven.  The  grove  was  peopled  with  tho 


90  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

merry  spring  birds,  singing  joyously  in  the 
*  fayre  greenwood  tree,'  and  every  note  went 
to  the  hearts  of  those  early  worshipers  of  God 
in  the  great  temple  of  his  works. 

A  sudden  curve  of  the  beach,  sweeping 
around  at  the  northern  extremity  from  the 
edge  of  a  grove  of  elms,  brought  before  them 
the  brilliant  expanse  of  the  river,  bounded 
in  the  distance  by  the  Palisades.  As  they 
emerged  from  under  the  shade  of  the 
trees,  and  exchanged  the  soft  smooth  sward 
for  the  sparkling  sands,  a  boat  shot  from  a 
little  cove,  artificially  constructed  upon  the 
shore  of  their  neighbor's  property,  and  made 
for  the  middle  of  the  broad  stream.  The  oar 
was  plied  by  the  vigorous  arm  of  a  young 
man  of  prepossessing  appearance,  who  seemed 
fully  equipped  for  a  fishing  excursion.  No 
sooner  had  his  eye  caught  the  forms  upon  the 
shore,  however,  than  he  hesitated  in  his  course, 
and  after  a  few  leisurely  strokes  of  the  oar 
forward,  he  suddenly  changed  the  direction 
of  his  vessel,  and  in  a  few  moments  ran  it 
Aipon  the  beach  where  they  stood. 

Somewhat  accustomed  to  the  friendly  free 
dom  of  country  life,  Mr.  Barnwell  advanced 
and  returned  a  polite  '  good  morning,'  to  the 


THE  NEW  HOME.  91 

gay  salutation  of  the  youthful  stranger,  who 
soon  sprang  upon  the  sands,  and  casting  his 
light  fishing-rod  into  the  boat,  said — 

*  A  fine  morning,  sir,  for  the  disciples  of 
Izaak  Walton.  Have  I  the  honor  of  address 
ing  our  new  neighbor,  Mr.  Baniwell  V 

Mr.  Barnwell  replied  in  the  affirmative, 
and  bowed  to  the  stranger's  announcement  of 
himself  as  Mr.  Gregory.  The  ceremony  of 
introduction  to  Charles  and  Constance  being 
over,  the  party  entered  into  a  conversation 
which  served  to  impress  them  favorably  in 
regard  to  the  good  humor  and  intelligence  of 
their  new  acquaintance. 

George  Gregory  was  a  young  man  of 
twenty,  uniting,  with  the  advantages  of  a  tall, 
muscular,  yet  graceful  figure,  the  ease  and 
polish  of  a  gentlemanly  address,  and  a  coun 
tenance  indicative  of  open  dispositions  and 
generosity  of  nature.  His  complexion  bore 
the  clear  and  healthy  hue  which  country  air 
and  exercise  confer,  his  light  gray  eye  spark 
led  with  vivacity  and  youthful  fire,  and  his 
clustering  brown  locks,  falling,  with  no  pre 
tensions  to  the  mode,  about  his  brow  and 
temples,  added  expression  and  grace  to  his 
features. 


92  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

His  first  glance  at  the  figure  and  face  of 
Constance  had  been  sufficient  to  interest  him. 
To  her,  after  a  few  remarks  contributed  as 
his  share  to  the  conversation  which  Mr. 
Barnwell  was  holding  with  his  son,  in  relation 
to  the  scenery  of  the  opposite  shore,  he  par 
ticularly  addressed  himself.  Like  her  he  had 
long  been  an  inhabitant  of  the  city,  and  was 
now,  indeed,  only  spending  a  few  months  in 
the  country  as  a  relaxation  from  severe  aca 
demical  engagements  during  the  winter. 
Their  discourse  naturally  turned  upon  the  re 
lative  advantages  and  pleasures  of  country 
life,  and  he  was  pleased  to  find  that  the  sen 
timents  of  the  fair  stranger  were  so  much  in 
unison  with  his  own.  Constance  was  equally 
interested  in  his  lively  appreciation  of  the 
charms  of  rural  life,  of  the  retirement  and  re 
pose  which  it  confers,  and  the  freshness  and 
purity  which  an  habitual  intercourse  with  na 
ture  imparts  to  the  moral  sentiments  and  the 
feelings. 

Attracted  by  some  incidental  remarks  which 
his  new  acquaintance  had  dropped  upon  the 
subject  of  literary  pursuits,  Charles  soon  came 
in  for  his  share  of  the  conversation.  For  one 
so  young,  his  familiarity  with  general  litera- 


THK  NKW  HOME.  93 

hire  seemed  surprising ;  nor  was  this  favor 
able  impression  diminished  by  the  appearance 
of  any  tiling  like  pedantry,  or  pretension  to 
superior  acquirement.  His  remarks  flowed 
from  him  easily  and  gracefully,  with  no  effort, 
as  if  in  the  ordinary  expression  of  his  thoughts. 
*  My  father,  >ir.'  he  observed  to  Mr.  Barn- 
well,  as  he  prepared  to  depart,  '  will  be  proud, 
I  am  assured,  to  cultivate  your  acquaintance. 
He  confines  himself  entirely  to  the  country, 
and  the  advantages  of  society  here,  as  you 
may  believe,  are  but  small.  He  will  hail 
with  pleasure  such  an  acquisition  to  the  circle 
of  his  tri< 

With  a  graceful  acknowledgment  of  the 
courtesy  thus  politely  offered,  Mr.  Barnwell, 
in  reply,  slightly  alluding  to  his  humble  mode 
of  life,  expressed  his  gratification  at  the  pros 
pect  of  agreeable  intercourse  thus  held  out  to 
him. 

The  history  of  his  misfortunes,  and  intend 
ed  removal  to  the  country  had,  as  is  usual  in 
such  cases,  preceded  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Barn- 
well's  family  <  \\  residence.  In  the 
family  circle  at  Mr.  Gregory's,  the  knowledge 
oi' his  honorable  conduct,  his  manly  character, 
9 


94  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

and  high  respectability,  had  awakened  a  de 
served  sympathy ;  and  its  members  were  pre 
pared  to  welcome  him,  not  only  as  an  agreea 
ble  neighbor,  but  as  an  intimate  and  honored 
friend. 

Under  these  circumstances  a  friendly  and 
pleasant  intercourse  between  the  families  im 
mediately  commenced.  Mutual  respect  soon 
deepened  into  mutual  esteem ;  and  a  similarity 
of  tastes  and  habits  induced  a  participation  in 
the  pleasing  pursuits  and  relaxations  of  a 
country  life.  The  necessary  personal  atten 
tion  which  Mr.  Barnwell  was  obliged  to  give 
to  his  farm,  now  formed  only  one  among  many 
inducements  to  exertion ;  and  before  another 
month  had  passed,  he  had  entirely  ceased  to 
regret  his  absence  from  the  busy  engagements 
of  the  city. 

A  letter,  which  Charles  received  about  this 
time  from  Edward  Seaman,  announced  his 
intention  to  spend  a  few  days  at  an  uncle's,  in 
the  immediate  vicinity;  during  which  he 
hoped  for  the  pleasure  of  frequent  intercourse 
with  his  old  friends.  With  mingled  feelings 
of  hope  and  anxiety  Constance  heard  this  an 
nouncement,  as  it  promised  a  final  determina- 


THE  NEW  HOME.  95 

tion  of  the  matter  which  now  so  deeply 
interested  her  affections.  The  months  of 
absence  which  had  intervened  since  their  re 
moval  from  the  city,  had  served  to  reveal  to 
her,  more  thoroughly,  the  true  state  of  her  feel 
ings.  The  struggle  through  which  she  had 
passed,  had  left  a  sense  of  exhaustion,  some 
times  deepening  into  despondency,  which  time 
had  not  began  to  mitigate.  The  prospect  of  a 
speedy  meeting  excited  her  beyond  her  wont, 
and  produced  not  an  unpleasing  interruption  to 
the  course  of  her  thoughts  in  regard  to  him. 
That  he  still  felt  for  her  all  the  affection  he 
had  once  expressed,  she  could  not  doubt,  from 
the  manner  in  which  he  had  written  to  Charles. 
That  he  had  conscientiously  and  faithfully  m- 
gaged  in  the  consideration  of  the  nature  and 
claims  of  practical  Christianity  she  also  knew ; 
and  a  long  letter  to  her  father  had  informed 
her  that  he  was  much  interested  in  the  inquiries 
he  had  commenced.  But  of  the  effect  which 
these  studies  had  produced,  or  were  producing, 
sin  knew  nothing.  It  was  natural,  therefore, 
that  she  should  look  forward  to  his  visit  to  the 
country  with  much  intm>t  and  anxiety. 


CHAPTER*. 

NEW   FRIENDS,   GOOD   AND   BAD. 
'  Look  on  this  picture  and  then  on  that.' 

Here  woman  reigns,  the  mothtr,  daughter,  wife, 
Strews  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life. 
MONTGOMERY. 


Instead  of  shutting  herself  up  in  her  nursery  she  strove  to  bring 
her  nursery  down  to  her  drawing  room,  and  instead  of  modestly 
denying  her  friends  entrance  into  her  purgatory,  she  had  a  foolish 
pride  in  showing  herself  in  the  midst  of  her  ansfls. 

Mi?s  FERRIER. 

THE  family  mansion  of  Mr.  Gregory  was 
one  of  those  noble  old  fashioned  structures, 
which  are  now  so  rarely  to  be  met  with  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis.  Modern  taste, 
and  the  rage  for  splendor  and  display,  are 
fast  destroying  every  such  monument  of  the 
good  old  times,  and  of  the  easy  and  generous 
hospitality  of  the  earlier  days  of  our  republic. 
The  mansion  was  built  before  the  Revolution, 
and  had  always  been  in  the  possession  of  the 
family,  whose  descendants  still  dwelt  in  it. 

A  few  days  after  the  events  narrated  in  the 


NEW    FRIENDS.  97 

commencement  of  the  last  chapter,  Mr.  Barn- 
w  t- 11,  his  son,  and  daughter,  called  to  return 
the  visit  of  their  neighbors.  As  they  ascend 
ed  the  noble  avenue  towards  the  dwelling, 
they  remarked,  with  satisfaction,  the  air  of 
complete  retirement  and  quiet  which  pervad 
ed  the  place.  A  double  row  of  elms,  the 
growth  of  half  a  century,  protected  the  high 
ly  cultivated  garden,  laid  out  with  much  taste 
on  either  side  of  the  avenue,  at  the  extremity 
of  which,  and  immediately  in  front  of  the 
well  shaded  portico,  was  a  beautiful  lawn, 
surrounding  a  fountain  and  spacious  marble 
basin,  supplied  with  water  from  a  spring  on 
the  elevated  ground,  beyond  the  mansion. 
On  the  left  of  the  building,  almost  entirely 
concealed  by  the  luxuriant  shrubbery,  stood 
the  gardener's  cottage,  and  in  a  corresponding 
situation  on  the  right  was  a  summer  house, 
commanding  a  partial  view  of  the  river.  A 
riding  course  wound  through  the  grove  that 
cted  the  mansion  on  the  north,  and  an  ar 
tificial  pond,  fed  by  springs  fronHabbve,  and 
emptying  into  the  river  by  a  serpentine  canal, 
whose  banks  were  covered  with  water  cress 
es,  occupied  the  back  ground. 


98  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

They  found  the  family,  enjoying  their  after 
noon  relaxation  under  the  pleasant  shade  of 
the  grove.  The  group  which  presented  itself 
as  they  approached  was  so  beautifully  in 
keeping  with  the  scene,  that  Constance  more 
than  half  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joyful 
surprise,  and  the  enthusiastic  Charles  whis 
pered  in  the  ear  of  his  father, 

'  If  first  impressions  may  be  depended  upon, 
sir,  yonder  group  will  fully  justify  the  expec 
tations  we  have  formed  from  our  slight  ac- 

O 

quaintance  with  a  few  of  its  members.' 

Mr.  Gregory,  a  dignified  looking  man  of 
fifty,  occupied  a  rustic  seat,  constructed  around 
the  huge  trunk  of  an  elm,  whose  spreading 
branches  touched  the  front  of  the  portico  on 
the  one  side,  and  nearly  mingled  with  the 
bright  jet  of  the  fountain  on  the  other.  At 
his  side  sat  his  eldest  daughter,  reading  to  him 
from  a  work  in  which  they  both  seemed  so 
deeply  engaged,  as  not  to  notice  the  approach 
of  their  guests.  His  son,  before  introduced  to 
the  notice  of  the  reader,  was  busily  occupied 
in  explaining  to  his  two  younger  sisters  the 
mysteries  of  a  new  geographical  puzzle  ; 
while  Augustus,  a  rosy-cheeked,  flaxen-haired 


NEW   FRIENDS,  99 

boy  of  eight  years,  was  eagerly  watching, 
with  repeated  exclamations  of  delight,  the 
evolutions  of  the  gold  and  silver  fish  in  the 
basin  of  the  fountain.  Over  him  stood  the 
watchful  mother,  younger,  by  a  few  years, 
than  her  husband,  affectionately  restraining  him 
from  too  venturesome  an  inclination  over  the 
marble  rim,  and  ever  ami  anon  casting  a  . 
glance  of  pleasure  towards  her  elder  son,  and 
his  prattling  pupils. 

*  You  find  us  at  our  ease,  my  dear  sir,'  said 
Mr.  Gregory,  rising  from  his  seat  and  ad 
vancing  towards  the  visitors.  '  Let  me  assure 
you  of  the  ^reat  pleasure  which  I  feel  in  your 
visit  Mr.  Barnwell,  Mr.  Charles  Barnwell, 
Miss  Barnwell,  Mary,'  he  added,  introducing 
them  to  his  daughter.  '  Mrs.  Gregory  and 
George  already  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance.  Will  you  take  seats  with  us 
IK  rt  for  a  moment,  my  friends,  or  shall  we 
adjourn  to  the  house.' 

'  This  grove  is  too  tempting,  sir,'  replied 
Mr.  Barnwell,  '  not  to  induce  us  to  wish  to 
enjoy  its  coolness  and  shade.  Have  I  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  your  whole  family?  he 
added,  with  a  delighted  look  around  the  circle. 


100  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  We  are  all  here,  sir,  each  one,  as  you  see, 
pursuing  his  own  pleasure.  Our  little  girls 
have  for  a  few  days  past  delighted  themselves 
with  the  prospect  of  a  playmate  from  your 
house,  as  Emily  here  is  ready,  I  dare  say,  to 
tell  us.'  '  Is  she  coming,  Father  ?'  said  Emily, 
anxiously  looking  down  the  avenue,  while 
Julia  elevated  herself  on  tiptoe  to  command 
a  more  extensive  view  of  the  approach  to  the 
house. 

'  All  in  good  time,  my  daughter.  I  had 
indeed  hoped,  Miss  Barnwell,'  appealing  to 
Constance, '  that  you  "would  bring  your  inter 
esting  little  sister  with  you  on  your  first  visit. 
Will  you  allow  my  little  ones  to  go  for  her  ?' 

The  permission  was  willingly  accorded,  and 
away  tripped  the  little  girls,  hand  in  hand,  to 
fulfil  their  pleasing  commission. 

Mary  Gregory,  whom  we  must  now  intro 
duce  to  the  reader,  was  a  young  lady  of  six 
teen.  She  had  no  pretensions  to  beauty,  be 
ing  possessed  of  plain  features,  of  which  a 
gentle  and  modest  sadness  was  the  predomi 
nant  expression.  An  accident  in  childhood 
had  deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her  left  arm, 
and  the  traces  of  the  suffering  she  had  en- 


NEW   FRIENDS.  101 

dured  were  still  visible  in  the  awkward  and 
painful  habits  of  motion,  which,  in  conse 
quence,  she  had  contracted.  Having  thus 
been,  in  a  great  measure,  deprived  of  the  or 
dinary  active  enjoyments  of  youth,  she  had 
been  thrown  upon  the  resources  of  a  mind 
naturally  ^il'tt-d  with  hi<jh  intellectual  ten- 
tlt -n.  -ies.  Her  fondness  for  literature  had  been 
encouraged  by  her  parents  as  promising  to 
supply  to  her  the  purest  pleasures.  Favored 
by  the  counsels  and  instructions  of  an  accom 
plished  and  judicious  governess,  of  whose 
company  she  had  within  a  lr\v  weeks  been 
deprived,  her  advancement  in  her  studies  was 
rapid,  and  the  developement  of  her  intellec 
tual  powers  extraordinary.  Besides  a  com 
petent  knowledge  of  the  ordinary  branches  of 
English  education,  she  had  acquired  a  fa 
miliarity  with  English  literature,  of  which  few 
young  ladies  of  twice  her  years,  could  boast. 
She  could  read  and  speak  the  French  and 
Italian  with  ease,  and  had  even  attained  to 
considerable  proficiency  in  the  study  of  the 
Latin  classics.  Denied  by  her  infirmity  the 
;K  (juin  inent  of  instrumental  music,  she  had 
yet  cultivated  to  the  utmost,  a  naturally  fine 


102  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

voice,  and  sang  with  taste  and  expression. 
Drawing  was  her  favorite  amusement — and 
to  the  cultivation  of  her  taste  in  this  beauti 
ful  art,  the  scenery  around  her  home  afforded 
the  highest  incitements. 

The  tender  heart  of  Constance  was  instinct 
ively  drawn  towards  this  interesting  girl  from 
the  first  moment  of  their  acquaintance.  She 
saw  at  once,  what  a  less  observant  eye  might 
have  failed  to  detect,  that  the  painful  sense  of 
physical  deformity  had  not  been  entirely  over 
come  by  her  naturally  cheerful  disposition. 
She  saw  that  the  exquisite  idea  of  the  beauti 
ful  and  graceful,  which  the  delicate  mind  of 
Mary  Gregory  entertained,  was  continually 
opposed  in  her  thoughts  to  the  inferiority  of 
her  own  person,  and  the  awkwardness  of  her 
manner.  As  the  restraint  of  a  first  meeting 
wore  off,  she  noticed,  with  surprise  and  plea 
sure,  her  native  nobleness  of  soul ;  her  exqui 
site  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  refinement  of 
taste.  A  child  in  years  and  appearance,  her 
conversation  displayed  all  the  beauty  and 
grace  of  high  intellectual  culture,  softened  by 
the  gentleness  of  a  pure  and  generous  heart. 
Was  it  then  strange  that  Constance  soon 
learned  to  love  her  with  a  sister's  love  ? 


NEW   FRIENDS.  103 

The  minds  of  both  her  parents  had  at  once 

•  •xttd  the    advantages  which  Mary 
likely  to  derive   from  the  companionship  of 
Constance,  with  whoso  character, through  the 
mean  ommon  friend  in  the  city,  they 

were  in  some  measure  acquainted.  They  no 
ticed,  therefore,  with  evident  gratification,  the 
ready  interest  with  which  their  beautiful  and 
accomplished  young  visitor  attached  herself  to 
their  daughter ;  and  the  happy  and  graceful 
manner  in  which  she  relieved  the  slight  em 
barrassment  which  Mary  always  felt  in  the 
presence  of  strangers  whom  she  respected. 

The  twin  sisters  soon  returned  from  the 
farm-house,  delightedly  leading  between  them 
the  happy  little  Josephine.  A  familiarity  be 
tween  children  is  easily  established ;  and,  as 
they  approached,  their  cheerful  voices  were 
heard,  detailing  to  their  new  companion,  the 
catalogue  of  all  their  little  employments  and 
pleasures. 

Relieved  from  his  pleasing  task,  George 
Gregory  attached  himself  to  Charles,  and  they 
soon  became  engaged  in  animated  discussion 
on  the  historical  localities  of  the  country 
around  them. 


104  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

The  mere  afternoon  call  thus  became  a  pro 
longed  and  friendly  visit,  and  it  was  with  sin 
cere  regret,  that  the  members  of  the  family 
bade  adieu  to  their  new  acquaintances.  They 
parted,  with  the  mutual  promise  of  neighborly 
intercourse,  and  the  Barnwells,  leaving  Jose 
phine,  at  the  earnest  request  of  the  young  la 
dies,  under  the  solicited  guardianship  of 
George,  proceeded  on  their  way  to  return  the 
courtesy  of  another  family  who  had  left  their 
cards  at  the  farm-house  on  the  preceding 
day. 

Briscome  Manor-house,  as  its  wealthy  own 
ers  ambitiously  styled  it,  was  situated  at  the 
distance  of  half  a  mile,  on  the  north  of  the 
mansion  of  Mr.  Gregory.  The  approach  to 
it  was  by  a  pleasant  footpath  through  the 
woodland,  which  hid  the  two  buildings  from 
the  view  of  each  other.  As  they  approached 
it,  they  could  not  but  remark  the  contrast 
which  the  house  and  grounds  presented,  to 
those  they  had  just  left.  The  architecture  of 
the  edifice,  in  a  style  of  heavy  and  cumbrous 
magnificence,  accorded  but  faintly  with  the 
simple  and  natural  beauties  of  the  situation. 
The  grounds  were  laid  out  with  the  same  dis- 


NEW    FRIENDS.  105 

regard  to  taste,  and  amidst  their  sharp  angles, 
fantastic  curves,  and  patches  of  gingerbread- 
work — to  use  a  somewhat  vulgar  but  express- 
ive  phrase — the  really  fine  advantages  of  cul 
ture,  which  the  situation  naturally  possessed, 
were  completely  lost. 

A  troop  of  noisy  children  were  romping 
about  the  piazza,  testifying,  by  their  loud 
s  and  rude  gestures,  that  they  were  not  in 
the  best  humor  with  each  other.  Indeed,  as 
they  came  nearer,  the  disturbance,  or  quarrel, 
whatever  it  might  be,  seemed  about  to  arrive 
at  its  crisis,  for  the  tallest  boy,  snatching  a  toy 
from  the  hands  of  one  of  his  sisters,  dashed  it 
upon  the  floor,  and  then  sullenly  marched 
away  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  triumph. 

The  approach  of  the  visitors  had  been  ob 
served  by  Mrs.  Briscome,  who,  rushing  into 
the  midst  of  her  little  ones  from  the  open  door 
of  the  hall,  by  scolding,  threats,  and  entreaties, 
endeavored  to  calm  the  confusion,  and  to  dis 
patch  them  to  the  nursery. 

'  Ma !'  exclaimed  the  little  girl  whose  pro 
perty  had  been  so  rudely  handled — '  Edward 
has  destroyed  my  beautiful  bird ; — ugly  fellow 


10 


106  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

that  he  is,'  and  she  stamped  upon  the  floor  in 
her  anger. 

'  I  will  do  so  again,  if  she  provokes  me,'  ex 
claimed  the  little  hero,  in  reply.  '  She  is  a 
naughty,  good-for-nothing  girl,  and  that  is  the 
truth  of  it.' 

'  Now,  Charlotte !  now,  Edward !'  shrieked 
the  distracted  mother,  as  her  visitors  neared 
the  steps  of  the  piazza ;  '  why  can  you  not 
agree  together,  like  good  sweet  children  V 

A  rude  laugh  from  Edward  testified  his 
appreciation  of  the  advice  of  his  mother. 
Charlotte  began  to  cry,  and  put  her  finger  in 
her  mouth,  at  the  same  time  treading  by  acci 
dent  upon  the  foot  of  a  little  dog,  who  was 
jumping  round  among  the  group,  but  who 
now  ran  away  yelping,  to  conceal  himself  in 
his  kennel,  beneath  the  piazza. 

This  accident  was  the  unlucky  occasion  of  a 
new  quarrel.  Carlo  was  the  favorite  of 
Henry,  the  second  son,  who  immediately  re 
venged  the  accidental  injury  which  the  dog 
had  received,  by  pushing  his  sister  violently 
against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  piazza.  The 
mother  caught  her  by  the  hand,  thus  breaking 
her  fall,  which  otherwise  might  have  proved 
serious. 


NEW  FRIENDS.  107 

'  0,  fie,  Henry !'  she  exclaimed,  « Charlotte 
did  not  mean  to  do  it,  I  know — did  you,  my 
lov, 

The  child  replied  only  by  a  violent  fit  of 
crying.  So  far  from  being  moved,  either  by 
the  words  of  his  mother,  or  this  usual  exhi 
bition  of  the  injured  feelings,  or  the  anger  of 
his  sister,  the  little  urchin  saucily  replied, — 

*  No,  she  never  means  to  do  anything  bad ; 
but  I  know  her — ugly  thing,  as  she  is' 

*  These  children  will  drive  me  mad !'  ex 
claimed  Mrs.  Briscome,  casting  an  agonized 
look  towards  the  Barnwell's ;  who,  aware  of 
the  unpleasantness  of  the  scene,  politely  lin 
gered,  to  admire   a  large  hydrangea,  which 
adorned  one  of  the  corners  of  the  flower-beds. 

Roused,  by  the  tumult,  from  his  afternoon 
siesta,  Mr.  Briscome,  a  short,  thickset,  rubi- 
nind-visaged  personage,  issued,  cane  in  hand, 
from  the  hall,  threatening  to  thrash  the  first 
little  rascal,  male  or  female,  that  should  dare 
to  continue  the  dispute. 

'  George,  my  dear  !'  hastily  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Briscome,  not  at  all  pleased  by  this  exhi 
bition  of  her  husband's  mode  of  discipline, 
Mlu -re  are  our  new  neighbors  in  the  garden ; 


108  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

low  people,  to  be  sure,'  she  whispered  in  his 
ear,  '  but  since  we  have  done  them  the  honor 
of  calling,  for  our  own  sake,  let  me  ask  you  to 
forbear' 

'  What — eh  !  our  new  neighbors  ?'  replied 
the  lord  of  the  manor,  trying  to  recover  his 
breath :  '  but  who  can  stand  this  eternal  noise  ? 
It  is  all  your  fault,  wife !  I  have  told  you 
often  enough  that  you  indulge  the  children 
too  much,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.' 

'  Hush,  for  heaven's  sake ! — brute  as  he  is' 
— she  added  to  herself — '  he  has  neither  pru 
dence  nor  politeness.'  And  then,  in  a  voice 
sufficiently  loud  to  be  overheard  by  the  visit 
ors,  '  I  am  sorry,  my  dear,  that  the  sports  of 
the  children  have  disturbed  you  :  but  young 
people  are  so  full  of  life.  Charlotte,  my  love, 
dry  your  tears — and  you,  Henry  and  Edward, 
have  forgotten  it  all,  I  know.' 

'  Come,  wife,  we  have  had  enough  of  this 
twaddle.  The  children  are  a  noisy,  ill-natured 
set,  and  I  care  not  who  knows  it,  provided 
they  know  also  who  it  is  that  makes  them  so. 
I  suppose  it  is  not  the  first  time  they  have 
seen  spoiled  children.' 

*  Vulgar  man !'  replied  Mrs.  Briscome,  with 


NEW   FRIENDS.  109 

a  glance  at  her  husband  very  far  removed 
from  an  affectionate  one — and  then,  hastily 
;uiv. mring  to  the  steps, she  assumed  a  smiling 
countenance,  as  the  Barnwells,  weary  of  their 
awkward  position,  advanced. 

'  Mr.  Barnwell,  I  presume,'  said  the  lady, 
with  a  tone  of  great  friendship  ;  '  we  have 
been  desirous  of  this  pleasure. — Mr.  Barnwell 
and  his  son  and  daughter,  George !'  she  added, 
with  a  gesture  of  peculiar  meaning,  meant 
for  her  husband's  instruction,  but  which  was 
unfortunately  lost  upon  him. 

*  Glad  to  see  you,  faith !'  he  ejaculated, 
flinging  away  the  end  of  his  cigar.  '  No  cere 
mony,  "wife — we  all  know  what  country  life 
is.  I  have  been  confined  to  the  shop  long 
enough  to  know  the  worth  of  its  ease.  Wel 
come,  sir.'  At  the  mention  of  that  odious 
word  '  shop,'  a  very  unlovely  frown  darkened 
the  brow  of  Mrs.  Briscome,  as  she  turned  her 
to  her  unceremonious  lord  and  master. 
Hasty  as  it  was,  it  was  perceived  by  all  her 
visitors;  upon  whose  minds  it  did  not  leave 
a  very  favorable  impression,  either  of  the 
temper  or  refinement  of  the  lady. 

'  Walk  in,  my  friends,'  said  Mr.  Briscome, 
10* 


110  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

extending  his  hand  to  Mr.  Barnwell :  but  at 
this  moment  the  unlucky  Edward,  attracted 
by  the  escape  of  a  rabbit  from  the  tender 
mercies  of  one  of  his  sisters,  darted  directly 
before  him,  inflicting,  as  he  went,  an  unfor 
tunate  pressure  upon  his  gouty  toe. 

An  exceedingly  vulgar  oath  instantly  fol 
lowed  this  accident,  and  the  cane  of  the  fa" 
ther  was  instantly  raised  to  inflict  summary 
punishment  upon  his  tormentor,  when  Mrs- 
Briscome  expressed  her  tender  feelings  on  the 
occasion  by  a  shrill  scream,  at  the  same  time 
calling  for  her  salts. 

(  Psha,  wife !'  exclaimed  the  husband,  drop 
ping  his  cane,  however,  and  hobbling  into 
the  house. 

Mrs.  Briscome  soon  recovered  herself,  and 
ushering  her  visitors  into  the  parlor,  endea 
vored,  by  apologies  which  might  better  have 
been  omitted,  to  do  away  the  impression  which 
she  rightly  conceived  them  to  have  received. 
Anxious  to  withdraw  her  attention  from  the 
subject,  Constance  seized  the  first  opportunity 
of  diverting  the  conversation  to  general  topics, 
which  an  allusion,  on  the  part  of  the  distress 
ed  lady,  to  the  hydrangea  soon  happily  af 
forded. 


NEW    FRIENDS.  Ill 

The  visit,  brief  as  it  was,  was  an  embar 
rassed  and  painful  one  to  all.  In  the  effort 
to  impress  her  visitors  with  a  sense  of  her  own 
refinement,  Mrs.  Briscome  only  convinced 
them  the  more  thoroughly  of  the  pitiful  affec 
tation  and  essential  vulgarity  of  her  nature. 
It  was  evident  that  she  had  no  idea  of  cha 
racter  or  worth,  above  that  which  is  confer 
red  by  wealth ;  and  that,  while  she  aspired 
to  the  refinements  of  polished  society,  she 
mistook  the  glitter  for  the  grace  which  may 
adorn  but  can  never  be  conferred  by  it  She 
had  condescended  to  notice  the  Barnwells  be 
cause  the  Gregorys  had  done  so.  Had  it  not 
been  for  this,  they  might  have  waited  long 
enough  for  the  honor — as  she  esteemed  it — 
of  her  acquaintance.  But  since  the  Grego 
ry  had  called  upon  them,  and  evidently 
thought  well  of  them,  she  could  do  no  less 
than  to  follow  their  example,  inwardly  deter 
mined,  however,  to  convince  them  of  the  con 
descension  to  which  she  stooped  in  doing  so. 

But  the  unfortunate  occurrences  of  this  first 
visit  ludicrously  diss<>Ivin<r.  at  once,  the  splen 
did  charms,  which  she  had  hoped  to  throw 
around  her  family,  in  general,  and  herself  in 
particular,  while  they  mortified  her  pride,  en» 


112  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

gendered  a  feeling  something  like  hatred  to 
wards  the  Barn  wells.  Vulgar  and  conceited 
as  she  was,  she  had  yet  sense  enough  to  ap 
preciate  the  true  dignity,  and  refinement  of 
character  of  her  visitors,  and  the  feeling  of 
this  mortified  without  humbling  her. 

As  for  Mr  Briscome — there  was  no  danger 

o 

of  such  feelings  disturbing  his  self-complacen 
cy.  He  talked  only  of  his  farm,  his  house — 
and  his  stocks,  laughed  at  his  wife — railed  at 
his  children,  and  complained  of  his  tenants. 
He  expressed  himself  glad  of  the  acquain 
tance  of  a  new  neighbor,  much  in  the  same 
tone  as  he  would  have  spoken  of  that  neigh 
bor's  purchasing  a  new  horse.  It  was  a 
change — and  he  hoped  the  country  air  would 
be  beneficial  to  them — and  that  they  were 
fond  of  fishing.  Their  farm,  to  be  sure,  wrasa 
small  affair,  but  he  did  not  value  a  man  by 
the  number  of  his  acres.  He  himself,  had 
once  commenced  in  the  soap  and  candle  line 
— (oh,  Mrs.  Briscome  !  ) — with  scarce  a  dol 
lar  that  he  might  call  his  own.  He  was  con 
siderably  well  to  do  now,  to  be  sure — but  he 
valued  industry  and  economy.  And  then  by 
way  of  conclusion,  he  called  out  to  his  oldest 


M-\V    FRIENDS.  1  13 

daughter,  who  was  lingering  near  the  door,  to 
show  herself,  and  not  be  afraid  of  people. 

The  child  thus  summoned,  was  one  whom 
the  visitors  had  not  hitherto  seen.  To  the 
surprise  of  Constance,  she  possessed  a  modes 
ty  of  countenance  and  gentleness  of  manner, 
entirely  in  contrast  with  the  rude  and  bold  as 
pect  and  demeanor  of  the  little  heroine  of  the 
piazza.  She  advanced  with  a  timid  step,  to 
her  father's  knee,  and  as  he  patted  her  bright 
ringlets,  and  called  her  his  pet,  she  stole  a  half 
glance  at  the  countenance  of  the  stranger  lady. 

The  ready  smile  of  Constance  assured  her 
at  once,  and  she  advanced  to  take  the  hand 
that  was  held  out  to  her. 

*  Fanny  is  the  only  bearable  brat  we  have,' 
said  Mr.  Briscome,  chuckling,  and  with  a  ma 
licious  glance  at  his  spouse,  '  but  that  is  no 
fault  of  ours,  however.  We  have  to  thank 
Miss  Perkins  for  that.' 

'  Perkins,  my  dear,  to  be  sure,  was  a  good 
useful  sort  of  a  person — but  I  have  superin 
tended  the  charge  of  Fanny's  education  main 
ly  myself,'  replied  his  wile. 

•  Supt  rintt  nded,  madeira ;  well,  that  is  a 
good  one.  But  at  any  rate,  she  is  a  nice 
child,  and  I  am  proud  of  her.' 


114  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

It  appeared  that  the  late  governess  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  Gregory,  attracted  by  the  gen 
tle  disposition  of  the  child,  and  the  complete 
neglect  of  all  culture  at  home,  had  prevailed 
upon  her  patron  to  allow  her  to  invite  Fanny 
Briscome  to  her  chamber,  for  a  few  hours 
every  day.  She  had  thus  been  the  means  of 
preserving  her  from  many  of  the  evil  habits 
of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  and  of  inspiring 
her  with  a  love  of  something  above  their 
sports  and  enjoyments.  Flattered  by  the  no 
tice  which  the  child  thus  received  from  her 
highly  respectable  neighbors,  Mrs.  Briscome 
had  offered  no  objections  to  the  arrangement, 
although  she  protested  that  she  saw  no  par 
ticular  advantage  in  it  to  her  daughter. 
Against  an  early  confinement  of  her  children 
to  study,  she  vehemently  protested,  and  deem 
ed  her  duty  in  regard  to  their  education,  suffi 
ciently  discharged,  if  at  the  age  of  eight  they 
were  able,  by  her  assistance,  to  master  the 
alphabet.  A  governess  would  be  necessary 
after  that,  to  be  sure,  and  Fanny  being  of  that 
age,  ought  perhaps  to  be  sent  away  to  school. 
But  Mr.  B.  had  advertised  for  a  governess ; 
and  perhaps  such  a  thing  would  do  no  harm 
now  that  Miss  Perkins  was  gone. 


115 

Constance  soon  perceived  the  extent  of  the 
service  which  the  depreciated  governess  had 
rendered  to  the  mind  and  deportment  of  the 
little  girl,  and  much  interested  in  her  behalf, 
said  to  her,  in  that  tone  of  affectionate  sympa 
thy  which  is  never  lost  upon  children,  that 
she  hoped  she  would,  by  and  by,  love  her  as 
she  had  loved  Miss  Perkins. 

Fanny  looked  up  into  her  face  with  a 
sweet  and  confiding  smile,  and  answered  with 
child-like  simplicity, <  Oh,  I  "shall  be  so  glad 
to  come  and  see  you,  if  ma  will  let  me.' 

*  Permit  you,  daughter,  certainly/  replied 
the  mother,  not  at  all  pleased  at  the  prospect. 
'  But,  by  the  way,  Miss  Barnwell,  have  you 
not  a  little  sister  ?  It  might  be  pleasant  for 
Fanny  to  have  a  companion.' 

The  eyes  of  the  little  girl  sparkled  with 
delight  at  this' suggestion,  and  she  bestowed 
upon  Constance  a  grateful  look,  as  she  arose 
to  depart 

This  embarrassing  visit  being  terminated, 
the  Barmvell's  returned  to  their  home,  grate 
ful  that  they  possessed  in  their  poverty  bless 
ings  which  all  the  wealth  of  the  Briscomes 
could  not  secure. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    COUNTRY   CHURCH. 

The  moon  above,  the  Church  below, 

A  wondrous  race  they  run, 
But  all  their  radiance,  all  their  glow, 

Each  borrows  of  its  sun. 

The  Savior  lends  the  light  and  heat 

That  crowns  his  holy  hill, 
The  saints,  like  stars,  around  his  seat 

Perform  their  courses  still.  KEBLE. 

BRIGHTLY  dawned  the  Sabbath  morning — 
clear,  mild,  and  beautiful — with  its  glorious 
wealth  of  sunshine — its  balmy  atmosphere — 
its  holy  stillness  and  repose. 

That  first  sound  of  the  church-bell !  How 
many  deep  and  rich  associations  did  it  awaken 
in  the  breasts  of  the  little  family  at  the  farm ! 
How  many  kindly  remembrances  of  the  past, 
how  much  of  subdued  hope,  and  quiet  confi 
dence  in  the  future ! 

As  rose  its  silver  chime, 

Winding  and  deep'ning  through  the  woods  and  dells, 
Calling  to  worship  in  the  morning's  prime  : 

Or,  when  the  sunlight's  spells 
Hung  o'er  the  landscape  as  the  day  grew  old, 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.        117 

they  felt  all  its  holy  influence.  It  subdued 
the  soul,  and  attuned  it  to  harmony  with  the 
heavenly  truths  which  that  season  was  de 
signed  to  perpetuate.  As  the  early  dew  upon 
the  flower,  it  prepared  the  heart  for  the  pre 
cious  influences  which  on  that  day  were  to 
fall  upon  it.  It  breathed 

A  peaceful  sound, 

A  sound  of  calm  and  solemn  blessedness, 
Like  angel  invitations  whispered  round, 

To  cheer,  console  and  bless. 
It  breathed  of  heaven,  of  broken  hearts  made  whole, 

And  many  a  trembling  soul, 
Strengthened,  refreshed,  and  pardoned  through  the 

blood 
Of  Chriat,  the  holy  Lamb,  its  Savior  and  its  God. 

The  church  which  the  Barnwells  were  , 
henceforth  to  call  their  own,  stood  at  a  short 
mile's  distance,  in  a  quiet  rural  spot,  half- 
encircled  by  a  belt  of  woodland,  stretching 
away  on  either  side  to  the  base  of  the  green 
hills  that  bounded  the  landscape  to  the  west 
The  poets  tell  us  that  groves  and  woods  were 
the  earliest  temples  for  the  worship  of  the 
Deity.  It  is  a  natural,  as  well  as  a  beautiful 
thought.  The  quiet  obscurity  of  the  forest 
11 


118  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

aisles,  pervaded  by  '  the  dim  religious  ray,'  so 
important  an  element  in  the  effect  of  Gothic 
sanctuaries,  inspires  and  aids  that  solemnity 
of  mind  which  must  accompany  its  highest 
acts  of  devotion.  Such  was,  in  some  degree 
at  least,  the  effect  produced  by  the  aspect 
and  situation  of  the  chaste  and  beautiful  little 
edifice  in  question,  but  half  visible  through 
the  openings  of  the  grove,  and  its  graceful 
spire  rising  above  it. 

It  was  the  hour  for  the  morning  service. 
From  the  openings  of  the  trees,  shadowing 
the  slightly  elevated  terrace  around  the 
church,  might  be  observed  the  approach  of  the 
congregation.  Here  and  there  a  family  came 
within  the  view,  slowly  wending  its  way  to 
.  the  house  of  prayer.  They  were  the  little 
family  circles  which  unite  and  become  one  in 
the  household  of  God.  Here  might  be  seen, 
on  the  one  side,  an  old  man  approaching 
with  that  measured  but  firm  step  with  which 
he  had  trod  the  same  path  from  his  home  to 
the  church  for  many  years.  It  must  have 
been  an  uncomfortable  day  indeed,  that  would 
have  kept  him  from  the  altar  of  his  fathers, 
He  had  breasted  many  a  storm,  rather  than  be 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  1 19 

absent  from  the  house  of  God.  He  was  a 
living  rebuke  to  the  absentees  on  slight  ex 
cuses,  and  an  example  of  punctuality  to  the 
laggers  behind  at  the  morning  service. 

Are  there  many  such  aged  servants  of  God, 
to  whom  'the  hoary  head  is  a  crown  of 
righteousness,'  and  who  daily  exemplify  how 
beautiful  religion  is,  when  it  sheds  its  true 
dignity  and  lustre  upon  the  downward  path  of 
human  life  ?  The  shadows  that  usually 
gather  over  that  way  are  gloomy  and  fearful, 
but  oh !  not  when  the  golden  beams  of  Gos 
pel  hope  are  shed  over  it  Then  the  rugged 
and  uncertain  track  is,  all  along,  inscribed 
with  the  most  glorious  of  the  promises,  and 
even  the  gate  of  death,  appearing  in  the  near 
prospect,  is  starred  and  luminous  with  glory. 

There  too,  by  one  observant  of  such  scenes, 
might  have  been  marked  the  pleasing  con 
trast  between  the  beauty  of  age  and  the 
beauty  of  youth,  when  the  lustre  of  piety  is 
around  them  both.  Immediately  behind  this 
aged  man,  approached  one  who  had  recently 
dedicated  himself  to  God.  It  was  Edward 
Seaman.  Having  arrived  the  evening  before 
at  the  residence  of  his  uncle,  he  had  set  off 


120  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

early  this  morning  for  the  church,  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  his  old  friends  on  the  way.  As 
he  drew  near,  he  lingered  to  admire  the  sim 
ple  but  exquisite  beauty  of  the  scene  before 
him.  It  was  in  complete  harmony  with  the 
warm  and  fresh  feelings  of  his  heart,  open  to 
all  the  genial  influences  of  nature,  and  beating 
with  the  first  pulses  of  spiritual  life. 

If  the  reader  will  indulge  the  sentiment ; 
to  one  who  had  known  them  both,  it  might 
have  been  pleasant  to  dwell  upon  the  con 
trast,  between  the  aged  saint,  and  the  young 
and  fervent  disciple.  The  one,  meekly  and 
patiently  traveling  the  road  to  heaven  and  to 
God,  soon  to  exchange  the  feeble  and  falter 
ing  services  of  earth  for  the  unwearied  min 
istrations  of  the  heavenly  temple — the  other 
just  entering  upon  the  path  of  spiritual  exer 
tion,  to  fill  up  the  place,  as  it  were,  of  him 
who  was  about  to  depart  from  it.  The  one 
taking  up  the  cross,  which  the  other  was  soon 
to  exchange  for  the  crown.  The  one  strong 
in  the  hope  and  patience  of  the  Gospel,  wait 
ing  for  the  coming  of  the  Lord — the  other, 
ardently  entering  with  a  humble  heart  and 
self-mistrusting  spirit,  into  a  service,  whose 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.        121 

temptations  and  toils  he  had  not  yet  expe 
rienced. 

The  sun,  when  it  ariseth  in  the  sweet  orient, 
hath  a  beauty  different  from  that  which  we 
behold  in  it,  when  it  goeth  down  behind  the 
western  hills,  or  sinks  slowly  and  majestically 
in  the  wave.  Thus  is  it  with  the  aspect  of 
aged  piety  and  of  youthful  devotion.  Both 
are  beautiful,  for  both  are  divine,  and  of  hea 
ven.  But  the  beauty  of  the  one  is  that  of 
the  morning  freshness  and  the  morning  vigor ; 
it  is  as  a  young  flower  upon  which  the  balmy 
dew  lieth,  fresh  indeed  and  brilliant,  but  upon 
which  we  cannot  look  without  a  sense  of  its 
frailty.  The  beauty  of  the  other  is  like  the 
evening's  settled  and  solemn  splendor — the 
beauty  of  the  autumnal  sunset  glorious  to  the 
last— of  the  serene  star,  that  after  the  long 
watches  of  the  night,  fades  only  in  the  blaze 
of  the  morning. 

Those  of  my  readers  whose  lot  it  has  been 
to  escape  from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  a  crowd 
ed  city  to  the  quiet  retreat  of  some  secluded 
village,  may  in  some  measure  appreciate  the 
feelings  of  Edward  as  he  lingered  under  the 
trees,  for  a  few  moments,  while  the  congre- 


122  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

gation  was  assembling.  Truly  did  he  feel  at 
that  hour  that  this  world  has  no  scene,  on 
which  the  eye  of  the  man  of  pure  moral  af 
fections  may  rest  more  gratefully  than  that 
which  is  presented  by  the  '  pleasant  places' 
which  embosom  the  village  church,  hallowed 
by  the  balmy  stillness  of  the  Sunday  morning, 
when  the  very  sunbeams  seem  to  sleep  reve 
rently  upon  the  grass  and  the  flowers,  and 
the  very  air  that  breathes  over  them  breathes 
of  holiness  and  peace.  And  deeply  did  he 
realize  the  truth  that  the  brief  and  troubled 
life  of  man  has  no  hour  of  calmer  and  more 
real  enjoyment  than  that  which  is  vouchsafed 
to  him  who  goes  forth  in  such  a  scene,  and 
at  such  a  time,  to  learn  of  the  goodness,  and 
enjoy  the  blessings  of  his  God. 

A  deep  and  serious  change  had  been  wrought 
in  his  religious  views  and  feelings,  since  the 
last  morning  he  had  spent  with  Constance  in 
New-York.  It  would  perhaps  be  too  much 
to  say  that  the  hope  of  her  approbation,  whose 
good  opinion  he  so  dearly  prized,  was  not 
the  great  motive  which  influenced  him  imme 
diately  to  enter  upon  the  practical  study  of 
the  Christian  religion,  with  a  view  of  settling 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.        123 

his  principles,  and  seeking  to  understand  and 
feel  its  true  spirit.  But  yet  he  was  now  too 
thoroughly  aroused  to  the  importance  of  the 
subject,  and  too  favorably  impressed  with 
respect  for  genuine  piety,  as  he  had  seen  it 
exhibited  in  the  character  and  conduct  of 
Constance,  to  waive  any  longer  the  personal 
and  serious  examination  of  it.  In  accordance 
with  her  earnest  advice,  he  had  betaken  him 
self  first  of  all  to  the  study  of  the  word  of 
God.  This  study  he  endeavored  to  conduct 
with  impartiality,  and  in  prayer  sought  the 
Divine  assistance.  At  first  the  task  had  been 
an  unprofitable  and  irksome  one.  He  found 
it  hard  to  bring  himself  as  a  little  child  to  sit 
at  the  feet  of  Jesus,  and  to  receive,  in  a  spirit 
of  meekness  and  submission,  the  humbling 
doctrines  of  the  Gospel.  He  had  grown  up 
in  the  admiration  of  the  pride  and  power  of 
the  human  intellect,  of  the  dignity  and  the 
worth  of  man,  and  it  was  hard  to  submit 
himself  to  a  system  which  told  only  of  man's 
degradation,  his  depravity,  and  his  moral  ruin. 
Hitherto  the  majesty  of  reason— in  that  sense 
of  reason  which  rejects  all  truth  above  the 
range  of  its  comprehension — had  been  wor- 


124  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

shiped  in  his  mind,  and  he  had  entertained 
pity  and  contempt  for  those  whose  system  of 
faith,  as  he  imagined,  tended  to  degrade  her 
authority  below  that  of  a  revelation  which 
rested  upon  mere  human  testimony.  Unfor 
tunately  he  had  been  much  thrown  into  the 
companionship  of  those  who,  justly  despising 
the  morbid  sentimentalism  and  ridiculous  cant 
of  a  religion  which  rested  only  upon  feelings 
and  impulses,  had  neglected  to  look  beyond 
them  for  a  purer  and  manner  tone  of  piety. 

In  the  circles  also  in  which  he  mingled,  it 
had  become  fashionable  to  speak  with  good- 
natured  pity  of  the  pious  weakness  of  those 
who  were  willing  to  receive,  as  parts  of  the 
revelation  of  God,  doctrines  which  wrere  con 
fessedly  above  the  comprehension  of  the  hu 
man  intellect.  The  prejudices  he  had  thus 
imbibed,  interposed  the  most  serious  obstacles 
in  the  way  of  his  inquiries.  But  the  natural 
candor  and  honesty  of  his  mind  enabled  him, 
by  degrees,  to  obtain  the  mastery  over  this 
unworthy  bias.  The  perusal  of  a  few  stan 
dard  works  on  controversial  divinity,  at  once 
exposed  the  shallowness  of  the  so  called  ra 
tional  system,  and  guided  him  to  principles, 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.        125 

by  the  application  of  which,  reason  was  made 
to  bow  with  reverence  before  the  majesty  of 
faith.  Gradually  he  became  conscious  of  the 
truth,  that  the  demands  of  the  latter  are  never 
contrary  to  the  dictates  of  the  former ;  and 
that,  though  in  Revelation,  as  in  nature,  there 
are  some  truths  above  the  sphere  of  reason, 
the  reception  of  a  contradiction  or  an  absurdi 
ty  is  never  demanded.  He  saw,  that  in  the 
field  of  revealed  truth,  as  well  as  in  that  of 
the  material  works  of  God,  there  must  always 
be,  so  long  as  man  is  finite  and  God  is  infinite, 
a  boundary,  where  certainty  ends  and  where 
mystery  begins.  He  had  candor  enough  to 
admit,  that  if  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  is 
mysterious,  the  fault  is  not  to  be  charged  upon 
the  revelation  of  God,  but  upon  the  faculties 
of  the  mind  that  would  too  rashly  pry  into  it 
And  he  justly  concluded  that,  if  the  principle 
which  would  reject  the  doctrine  were  carried 
out  into  other  departments  of  truth,  it  would 
necessarily  lead  to  the  most  absurd  results. 
He  knew  that  there  are  facts  and  modes  of 
being  with  which  our  daily  experience  is  fa 
miliar,  which  are  hardly  less  incomprehensible. 
The  existence  of  three  distinct  persons  in  the 


126  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

unity  of  the  Divine  nature  was,  and  he  believ 
ed  must  necessarily  be,  a  mystery,  so  long  as 
the  nature  of  man  remained  as  it  is.  But  then 
he  could  not  but  admit,  that  it  was  scarcely 
more  incomprehensible  than  the  intimate  union 
of  the  soul  and  body  in  the  being  of  man,  in 
volving  as  it  does,  all  the  unexplained  prob 
lems  of  the  magic  power  of  the  will  over  the 
senses  and  the  corporeal  powers ;  of  spirit 
over  gross  matter ;  of  that  which  is  etherial, 
intangible,  imperishable,  over  that  which  is 
tangible,  organic,  and  corruptible. 

Soon  the  sublime  teachings  of  Scripture  in 
regard  to  the  interposition  of  Divine  wisdom 
and  mercy  on  man's  behalf,  the  rescue  placed 
before  him,  the  moral  regeneration,  the  spi 
ritual  blessedness,  the  eternal  happiness  offer 
ed  him,  were  understood  and  realized.  He 
could  feel,  at  length,  something  of  the  subdu 
ing  and  constraining  power  of  that  love 
wherewith  God  hath  loved  the  world ;  and 
he  no  longer  doubted  of  the  strength  of  Chris 
tian  principle,  or  of  the  genuineness  and  self- 
sacrificing  spirit  of  true  piety.  He  saw  a 
new  meaning  in  the  hitherto  misunderstood 
words  of  prophets  and  apostles ;  and  a  majes- 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.        127 

ty,  a  tenderness  and  godlike  compassion  in 
the  recorded  language  and  acts  of  the  Savior, 
in  rvrry  word  and  work  of  Christ,  that  con 
vinced,  conquered,  and  melted  him. 

His  inquiries  thus  prosecuted  and  blessed, 
had  also  been  much  aided  by  the  judicious 
counsels  and  salutary  suggestions  of  his  pas 
tor,  Dr.  ,  to  whom  he  had  frankly  re 
vealed  the  extent  and  nature  of  his  religious 
perplexities.  To  a  mind  and  heart  like  his, 
when  once  thoroughly  convinced  and  touch- 
c  «1.  there  was  no  hesitation.  He  had  propos 
ed  himself  to  his  pastor  as  a  candidate  for 
communion,  and  now  under  his  encourage 
ment,  looked  forward  to  receiving  it  at  the 
first  opportunity. 

With  subdued  and  peaceful  feelings,  he  en 
tered  the  sanctuary  as  the  bell  commenced 
tnllinir,  and  took  his  seat  in  a  retired  part  of 
the  church,  and  a  few  moments  were  spent 
in  silent  prayer.  As  he  arose  from  his  knees 
he  noticed  the  arrival  of  his  friends  the  Barn- 
wells.  The  eye  of  Constance  accidentally 
observed  his  presence,  and  an  emotion  of  de 
vout  gratitude  arose  in  her  pure  bosom  as  she 
saw  he  was  kneeling  in  prayer  to  God.  As 


128  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

they  passed  on  to  their  seat,  his  heart  beat 
high  with  emotion.  Who  will  wonder  or 
reproach  him,  if  he  was  not  able  to  shut 
out  feelings  not  entirely  in  accordance  with 
the  sanctity  of  the  place  and  the  occasion  ? 
or  if  the  purity,  the  sweet  piety,  the  generous, 
unselfish,  womanly  devotion  of  Constance, 
mingled  with  his  thoughts  of  God,  of  heaven, 
and  of  the  blessed  angels  ? 

Soon  the  soft  low  tones  of  the  organ,  an 
nounced  the  presence  of  the  clergyman.  In 
his  appearance  and  manner  there  was  some 
thing  peculiarly  prepossessing.  His  ministe 
rial  life  had  been  spent  among  that  simple 
people,  by  whom  he  was  beloved  for  his  vir 
tues,  and  honored  for  his  talents. 

'  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear.' 

The  service  was  performed  throughout  in 
that  solemn  and  reverential  manner,  which  in 
spires  and  sustains  devotion,  and  the  sermon, 
a  plain  exposition  of  Christian  duty,  enforced 
by  a  fervent  and  affectionate  appeal,  evident 
ly  left  a  deep  and  general  impression. 

Edward  met  his  friends  at  the  door,  and 
accompanied  them  to  their  homes.  The  con- 


mi  1-J!) 

tion  naturally  turned  upon  tin-  subject  of 
tin-  sermon,  and  Constance,  no  less  than  her 
lather  and  brother,  heard  with  delimit  tlie  re 
marks  which  tell  from  him.  The  sensitive 
mind  of  affection,  could  not  but  draw  the 
flattering  influences  from  his  words  ; 
and  as  they  v,  •  d  in  the  parlor,  await 

ing  dinner,  an  opportunity  for  farther  insight 
into  the  views  and  feelings  of  Kdward  occur 
red.  This  was  occasioned  by  the  remark  of 
Mr.  Barmvell,  intimating  the  pleasure  with 
which  he  had  heard  the  announcement  thai 
•tent  of  the  Lord's  supper,  would  be 
administered  on  the  following  Lord's  day. 

•  I  i  an  now.  I  trust/  said  Kdward,  l  under 
stand  something  of  the  nature  of  your  feel- 
in  ITS  in  prospect  of  this  interesting  Christian 
solemnity.  I  hope  soon  to  be  blessed  with 
the  privilege  of  kneeling  at  the  altar.' 

Mr.  Barnwell  cast  a  look  of  undisguised 
pleasure  at  Constance,  who  dropped  her  eyes 
while  her  heart  beat  hiLrh. 

In  few  WOrdfl  Kdward  then  informed  them 
«>f  the  religious  inquiries,  in  which  he  liad 
been  recently  en^a'jvd  and  of  their  result. 

lie  dwelt  without  disguise  upon  the  conflict 

l: 


130  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

he  had  undergone  ;  of  the  darkness  through 
which  he  had  passed  ;  of  the  light  and  com 
fort  which  had  followed.  He  spoke  as  a 
penitent  sinner,  to  whom  the  way  of  pardon 
and  of  peace  hadbeen  mercifully  opened  ;  and 
in  the  sincerity  of  his  self-accusings,  and  the 
depth  of  his  humility,  and  mistrust  of  self, 
his  friends  believed  they  discerned  the  genu 
ine  ope  rations  of  the  Spirit  of  God. 

'Thank  God! — thank  God!'  exclaimed 
Charles,  rising  and  taking  his  friend's  hand 
in  his  own,  while  his  noble  heart  swelled  with 
emotion. 

The  tears  started  to  the  eyes  of  Constance 
at  this  sudden  expression  of  her  brother's  hap 
py  feelings.  Surely,  to  her,  this  was  a  day 
of  unmingled  happiness. 

The  afternoon, — for  there  was  but  one  ser 
vice  at  the  Church, — was  spent  in  conversa 
tion  and  reading.  The  evening  was  occupied 
by  Mr.  Barnwell  in  the  religious  instruction 
of  his  youngest  daughter,  in  the  presence  of 
the  household,  of  which  the  catechism  formed 


OHAPTEB  XII. 
mi:  su  K  UIAMBKU — M:\V  TI:: 

'Tli.  .0111, 

Thine  rqurr  Jooin 

r  linlc  day.' 

•  all  a*  one  as  F  should  lovr  n  bright  particular  star.' 

DAI.  jrfl  than  the\  had  yet  experienced 

were   in  store  tor  the  family.      Hithcrlo,  they 

had  bri-ii  tiii-d  only  on  the  side  of  their  worldly 

interests:    and  the  storm  which  iniu'ht   have 

A). i  lined  others  with  despair,  had  passed 

their  heads — succeeded    l,y  the  sunshine. 

Charles,   whose   rapidly    improving   health 
had  inspired  him  with  the  hope  that  lie  mi^ht 
safely  return  to   his  literary  labors,  had    1 
few  weeks  earnestly  de\oted  hii  new 

poem,  on  a    subje.  'ed   by  one  of    his 

friend-,  v,  ,1  opinion  he  highly  prixed. 

Tin-   excitement     attending     its    composition, 

for  a  tone,  seemingly  sustained,  while,  in  re 
ality,  it  \\.  \lnmstini_:  his  strenirtli. 


132  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Mr.  Barnwell,  though  somewhat  fearful  of 
the  result,  was  also  deceived  by  the  tempora 
ry  effects  which  the  country  air  and  exercise 
had  produced  on  his  son's  health.  The  de 
ception  however  was  soon  painfully  cor 
rected. 

A  few  days  after  the  short  visit  of  Edward, 
who  had  left  them  in  hope  of  a  speedy  return, 
a  violent  attack  of  pain  confined  Charles  to 
his  bed.  His  strength  was  immediately  and 
thoroughly  prostrated  ;  and  it  was  fearful  to 
remark  the  rapid  progress  of  his  disease.  A 
physician  was  consulted,  whose  opinion, 
though  expressed  with  as  much  encourage 
ment  as  he  dared  to  hold  out,  was  such  as  to 
deepen  the  painful  anxiety  of  his  friends.  A 
melancholy  foreboding  of  the  result,  founded 
upon  his  observation  of  the  course  of  the  same 
disease  in  his  wife,  weighed  upon  the  spirits 
of  Mr.  Barnwell,  who  never  left  his  bedside 
except  when  urgently  demanded  by  the  neces 
sary  business  of  his  farm.  Constance,  also, 
unremitting  in  her  attentions,  and  dividing 
her  care  between  her  aunt  and  brother,  except 
when  engaged  in  the  duty  of  instructing  Jo 
sephine,  seemed  like  a  sweet  angel  of  love, 


THK  SICK  t  M  \MRKK. 


cheering  his  dependency,  n-lifvin-r  1, 
ness,  and  ministering  to  his  \va: 

The  termination,  however,  was   not  yet  at 
hand.     Reduced  to  a  stale  ofVi 
the   invalid   lingered  OH  ;   and   tin-  disease,  at 
first  |  .  ;i  station 

ary  character.  Onsomeofthe  pleasant  siim- 
iner  days  he  was  enabled  to  sit  lor  a  short 
time  at  the  open  window  of  the  apartment, 
and  even  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  removal  to 

O 

the  jxjrtico.  Hope  once  more  faintly  dawned 
in  the  bosom  of  his  sister,  as  these  favorable 
symptoms  became  more  and  more  frequent  in 
their  recurrence,  but  they  were  not  able  to 
dispel  the  cum  iction  of  his  speedy  dissolution 
from  the  mind  of  Mr.  Barnwell.  The  bright 
sunny  countenance  of  Josephine,  s;>  suddenly 
clouded,  became  once  more  radiant  with  <_j;lad- 
ness;  and  the  keen  anguish  of  her  little  heart 
at  the  sullerinirs  of  her  brother,  dav  by  day, 
gave  place  to  hope  and  •jratitude. 

By  a  thousand  delicate  attentions,  Mr.  Gre 
gory  and  his  family  testified  their  interest  to 
wards  the  aillicted  household.  Scarcely  a 
day  had  pass,  d  in  which  (Jeor^e  had  not 
--pent  ari  hour  at  the  bedside  of  the  friend 


134  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

whom  he  he  had  so  soon  learned  to  respect  for 
his  talents,  and  to  love  for  his  high-souled  and 
manly  virtues.  Mary  always  accompanied 
him  in  these  visits,  and  after  her  brother  had 
departed,  would  solicit  the  privilege  of  divid 
ing  with  Constance  the  pleasant  duty  of  read 
ing  to  the  invalid,  or  of  amusing  him  by  con 
versation  ;  a  task  in  which,  notwithstanding 
her  timidity,  she  soon  admirably  succeeded. 

Days  and  even  weeks  passed  on,  and  still 
the  invalid  lingered  on  in  the  same  state.  If 
there  wTas  any  change,  it  appeared  to  be  for 
the  better.  The  physician  became  less  fre 
quent  in  his  visits,  and  Mr.  Barnwell,  resign 
ing  the  charge  of  his  attendance  to  Constance 
and  her  friends,  was  enabled  to  give  himself 
more  thoroughly  to  the  superintendence  of  his 
farm. 

One  morning,  as  Constance  and  George  and 
Mary  Gregory  were  assembled  in  the  parlor, 
to  which  Charles  had  been  enabled  to  descend, 
Mr.  Barnwell  entered,  and  with  a  smile  an 
nounced  the  reception  of  a  letter  from  Edward 
Seaman,  who  had  left  the  city  for  the  south,  a 
short  time  after  his  visit  at  their  house,  on  bu 
siness  for  his  father. 


THF    SICK    (  11AM!  '•  K'f> 

'  And  what  think  yon,  Charles  '.'  he  added: 

'  hr  will  In-  with  us  in  a  lew  d; 

Tin-  liirlit  of  pleasure  gleamed   in  the 
of  thf  invalid,  as  lu-  received  the  open   letter 
t'roni  the  hand  of  his  father,  and  eagerly  coni- 
ineneed  its  perusal. 

Mary  observed  the  blush  which  overspread 
the  countenance  of  Constance,  as  she  heard  the 
announcement,  and  alter  a  hasty  glance  at 
her  brother,  took  her  hand  and  softly  en 
quired — k  Who  is  this  Mr.  Seaman,  Constance, 
you  have  never  mentioned  him  to  me  ?' 

The   question     arrested    the    attention    of 
iliar  and  painful  expression 
might   have   been   detected   upon   his  counte 
nance,  tor  a  moment,  as  he  awaited  the  reply. 

'  He  is  a  friend  of  Charles,'  replied  Con- 
stanee,  and  she  blushed  more  deeply  as  she 
added,  '  and  of  all  of  us.' 

The   mild    e\e    of    MIMA     (ire<j;ory   a^ain 
her  brother. 

'I  wish  you  knew  him,  (ieor<jv.'  said 
Charles,  with  enthusiasm — "the  kindest,  no- 
blest.  truest-hearted  fellow' 

A  suppressed  si<_rh.  unheard  and  unnoticed 


136  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

by  all,  but  Mary,  caused  her  to  look  earnestly 
into  the  eyes  of  Constance,  as  she  whispered, 

'  Is  he  a  very  dear  friend — of  yours,  I  mean.' 

The  returning  blush  crimsoning  the  expres 
sive  countenance  of  her  friend,  furnished  the 
answer  to  this  question.  Mary  sighed  hea 
vily  as  she  dropped  the  hand  she  had  taken, 
and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  invalid. 

'  George,'  said  she,  as  they  passed  along 
the  avenue  that  led  to  their  own  residence, 
after  their  visit, '  I  do  believe  Miss  Barnwell 
loves  this  Mr.  Seaman.' 

Her  brother  was  silent,  although  his  man 
ner  testified  that  his  silence  was  not  the  re 
sult  of  indifference. 

'  Now,  I  should  like  to  see  this  young  gen 
tleman,  whom  the  Barnwells  all  appear  to 
love  so  much,'  added  the  sister,  half  musing 
ly — '  I  wonder  if  Constance  is  not  engaged 
to  him.' 

'  Mary !'  exclaimed  George,  arresting  his 
step,  and  compressing  his  lips. 

'  Yes,  George,  I  believe  it — nay,  I  know 
it,'  she  replied,  as  the  manner  in  which  Con 
stance  had  heard  her  question  returned  vivid 
ly  to  her  recollection. 


THK    -UK    <  HAMI.  1.'57 


*  Wlial  r   avked   her  brother.  •••in- 
pressed  lips  became  paler,  and  a  frown  slight 

ly  darkened  his  forehead  —  'has  Constance 
i^iven  you  an\  reasmi,  or  \vhat  causes  this 
belief  T 

'Ge-'i-jv.  1  <'<mnot  be  mistaken,'  replied 
the  artless  and  tender-hearted  i^irl,  in  a  \ 

trennilons  witli  emotion  —  "  a  \voman's  blushes 
always  betray  her  feelings.' 

'Miserable  tool  that  I  am!'  exclaimed 
George,  striking  his  ton-head;  and  in  a  deep, 
husky  tone  —  '  I  ou^ht  to  ha\e  .  \pi  cted  this. 
But  no,'  he  added  immediately,  u;mn£  ex 
pression  to  the  Mrantre  movements  ot  a  lover's 
heart.  '  Mary,  it  is  not  so.  1  will  return 
and  ask  her  the  question.  She  is  far  too 
pure,  too  noble-hearted,  too  sniileless.  to  ha\  e 
concealed  this  from  me.  She  must  have  no 
ticed  something  ot'//;//  teeliliLTS,  surelN.' 

Oh,  my  brother!'  replied  Mary,  'do  not 
dec.  .  h.  1  ,1111  confident  that  Con 

stance  1,  dreamed1  — 

*  Never  dreamed  ot  it,  Mary  '.      Well,  per 
haps  —  perhaps    you    are    litrht'  —  lie   added 
slowly,  as  his  mind  dwelt  upon  the  br'n 


138  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

tory  of  their  intercourse.  In  that  retrospect 
he  saw  little  to  hope — every  thing  to  fear. 

High  minded  and  honorable  as  he  was — 
for  George  Gregory,  also,  was  a  Christian — 
the  recoil  of  his  feelings  was  dreadful.  For 
a  moment  he  grew  sick  at  heart,  and  leaned 
for  support  against  a  tree. 

'  Oh  !  my  brother,  my  dear  George !'  said 
Mary,  grasping  his  hand,  while  her  tears  flow 
ed  unrestrained — '  /  had  not  suspected  this — 
too  deeply — I  see — I  see  my  mistake.  Broth 
er,  I  should  have  warned  you  before.' 

With  a  strong  effort  George  obtained  a  suf 
ficient  mastery  over  his  feelings  to  enable  him 
to  reply — '  But,  sister,  I  will  hope  to  the  last. 
I  must  know  the  certainty  of  this,  from  the 
lips  of  Constance  herself.' 

His  sister  could  not  answer,  but  taking  his 
arm,  led  him  in  silence  to  their  home. 

That  was  a  bitter  day  for  both  !  George, 
who,  at  the  first  hour  in  which  he  had  been 
thrown  into  the  presence  of  Miss  Barnwell, 
had  felt  a  deep  interest  in  her,  had  gradually 
come  to  entertain  towards  her  the  purest  and 
most  ardent  affection.  His  passion  had  began 
and  deepened  without  encouragement.  Ut- 


THK    MCK    (  H\M!.!  139 

terly  iirnorant  ot'  her  feeling,  hut  conscious 
of  the  strength  and  fervor  of  his  own,  he  had 
:  hiiuM'ir  up  to  the  blissful  dream  of  1m  r, 
to  learn,  when  it  was  well  nigh  too  late,  that 
all  hope  of  its  happ\  Usue  was  vain. 

M,ir\,  with  the  instinctive  quickness  of  a 
woman's  heart,  had  read  the  nature  of  his 
teeliiiii's.  and  although  hall  fearful,  from  the 
sweet  dignity  and  utter  freedom  from  embar 
rassment  which  Constance  al\va\s  exhibited 
in  the  presence  of  her  brother,  that  her  affec 
tions,  if  not  already  en^a'jvd,  could  neves-  re 
spond  to  his,  she  had  forborne  to  hint  her 
Mispicioiis.  At  a  late  inter\  iew,  in  which 
George,  by  accident,  had  seemed  to  her  con 
scious  mind,  to  testify  sufficiently  the  nature 
of  his  feelings,  she  was  convinced  from  the 
manner  of  her  lovely  friend  that  she  was  en 
tirely  ignorant  of  them.  Pained  at  this  reve 
lation,  she  resolved  to  embrace  the  first  oppor 
tunity  of  convincing  him  of  the  error  into 
which  the\  had  both  fallen,  and  of  strength 
ening  liis  mind  against  any  farther  indulgence 
of  these  feelings. 

The   scene    through  which    the\    p, 

above  related,  pnncd   exquisitely  painful  to 


140  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Mary.  With  the  deepest  sympathy  for  her 
brother's  trying  situation,  there  was  a  mingled 
feeling  of  self-reproach,  that  she  had,  in  some 
measure  contributed  to  it. 

The  first  movement  of  the  ardent  nature  of 
George  Gregory,  had  been  to  seek  an  inter 
view  with  Constance,  and  to  hear  his  fate 
from  her  own  lips.  Reflection,  however,  in 
duced  him  to  adopt  a  different  course.  He 
knew  that  if  the  affections  of  the  young  lady 
were  already  engaged,  it  would  be  an  unne 
cessary  embarrassment,  not  to  say  cruelty,  to 
her,  to  make  an  avowal  of  his  passion.  The 
most  delicate  course,  as  he  imagined,  was  to 
seek  satisfaction  on  the  point  from  her  father, 
which  he  accordingly  resolved  to  do. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

DEATH. 

'Of  all  the  wouder»  that  I  >>  i  li:ivc  In  aril. 
It  iMfins  tu  I  .:••  lh.it  iiicii  r-hnii!.: 

Seeing  that  draiii,  a  m  i   >-..-. r\  •  MI!. 
Will  mini-.  \»|I.-M  ii  mil  . 

ACTI  viT.n   by   the  purpose   which   he  liail 
adopted,  George  ( i  uu'ht  an  interview 

with    Mr.    Barnwell    on   the  same    evening. 
Christian  linnnrss   had   obtained  the   m;r 

.    and   it    was   with    a   heart 
,ii.iti\t-!y  calm   that    lie  stood   upon   the 
portico,  awaitintr  tlie  answer  to  the  bell. 

The    scene    liefoiv    him,    beautiful    at    all 

times,  was  now  softened  into  exquisite  lo\eli- 

ness   by  the  mild    radiance  of  the   summer 

moonlight.     Tree,  rock,  and  wave  lay  bathed 

in  itv  ^.litest  s|ilendoi>.     The  peaceful  bosom 

of  the  ii\er  \\.iv  tracked   by  a  broad  line  ot 

•  :-y  li«rht :   and  the   indistinct   and   broken 

outline   of  the    opposite  shore,  relieved   here 

and  there  by  a  Kolitary  tree,  or  a  lone  farm- 

19 


142  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

house,  contributed  to  the  magic  dreaminess  of 
the  picture. 

As  he  entered  the  hall,  sobs  were  distinctly 
audible  from  the  chamber  of  the  invalid.  The 
servant  stole  up  stairs  with  a  noiseless  step, 
as  if  fearful  to  disturb  the  silence  that  reigned 
in  the  house,  and  presently  returned  with  an 
invitation  to  the  sick-room. 

What  were  his  emotions,  when,  instead  of 
the  happy  and  hopeful  group  he  had  seen  in 
the  morning,  he  now  saw  a  strickened  band 
of  mourners,  weeping  over  the  dying  bed  of 
a  son  and  a  brother ! 

The  clergyman  wras  kneeling  at  the  bed 
side  as  he  entered,  holding  one  hand  of  the 
invalid  in  his  own,  and  offering  up  the  visita 
tion  prayer.  George  immediately  dropt  upon 
his  knee,  and  as  the  half-uttered  response,  and 
anxious,  fervent '  amen '  was  heard  from  one 
and  another  of  the  beloved  group,  he  wept  as 
he  knelt. 

Presently  the  voice  of  the  clergyman 
ceased ;  and  as  they  arose  from  their  knees, 
he  heard  the  sweet,  mild  tones  of  Constance, 
breathing  into  the  ear  of  her  brother. 

'  Sister,'  he  whispered,  in  reply, — but  his 


DEATH. 

roken.  and  some-times  indistinct. 
4  you  would  not  fear  to  die  I' 

The  sound  of  weeping  was  tin-  only  an 
swer. 

•  Y:\.-wet1  Constance — beloved  sifter,' he 
continued,  '  why  do  you  weep  ?      1    leel   that 
God  supports  me.     Yes,  the  e\erl;istin>_-  arms 
— blessed  Savior,  how  wonderful  thy  siraceto 
— to — a  poor  sinner !' 

At  this  moment  Josephine  came  to  the  bed 
side,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  sister's  bo- 
Mnii.  A  peaceful,  amrdic  over 

the  features  of  the  d\in^  youth,  id, 

*  Dear  Josejihine,  why  do  you  weep  SO?' 

'  Herause,  Charles.' she  sobbed,  fixing 

her  swimming  eyes  upon    his  counten; 
She  could  say  no  more. 

'  Jovephine.  I  do  not  fear  to  die.      I  am  gO- 

LWSJ   from  \oii,  but  if  you  will  bo  a  li'uod 

child,  and    belie\e    and    love    the  Savior,  and 

live   a    holy  life,  we   shall    meet    airain.      My 

'•  I  die." 

The  child  raised  her  head,  and  with  a  won 
dering  and  atleclionate  look,  in  which  lo\e, 
>orrovv,  and  hope,  were  strangely  intt nnin- 
the  bloodl-  •  .;her. 


144  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  Josephine,  whenever  you  look  at  mother's 
picture,  think  that  I  have  gone  home  to 
her — home  to  heaven — where  we  will  wait 
for  you,  and  for  all  I  am  leaving  now.' 

'  Oh,  Charles !'  was  the  only  answer  of  the 
child. 

'  And  now,  Constance,'  he  said, '  I  feel  that 
I  have  strength  enough  to  hear  once  more 
that  beautiful  letter  from  Edward.  Read  it, 
sister,  for  it  will  give  me  happiness  in  death.' 

With  a  faltering  voice  Constance  com 
menced  the  reading  of  the  letter  received  that 
morning.  It  was  addressed  to  Charles,  and 
detailed  the  interesting  circumstances  attend 
ing  his  religious  inquiries  and  his  conversion. 

'  And  now,  my  dear  friend,'  was  the  lan 
guage  in  which  it  concluded, '  I  have  given 
you  a  faithful  history  of  my  Christian  expe 
rience.  I  have  had,  as  I  have  said,  many 
hours  of  darkness,  doubt,  and  despondency. 
Mine  was  a  high  and  proud  spirit,  but  the 
wonderful  grace  of  God  has  subdued  it.  My 
heart  had  grown  hard  in  its  selfishness,  and 
the  religious  views  I  previously  entertained, 
had  only  served  to  deepen  that  selfishness. 
Misled  by  the  false  but  plausible  reasonings 


III.  1  1  I 

of    mm,    I    conceived    that    the    fundamental 
ines  of  ii  vhibitinu;   ;i  Triune 

God  interposing  <>n  our  behalf  a  Divine  sacri 
fice  fnr  sin,  a  Spirit  of  sanciificatiou  dwelling 
in  the  In-art,  \veie  in*  >  ^itli  the  fa  n- 

ci.  d  moral  purity  ami  dignity  of  man. 
ver  luninu:  known  the  evil  of  sin,  and  never 
having  contrasted  its  fearful  effects,  and  ne- 
,ilv  awful  penalties,  with  the  attributes 
of  a  perfect  and  holv  Clod  —  a  bein<j  infinitely 
just  and  wise,  as  well  as  merciful  —  I  saw  no 
beauty  or  necessity  in  the  scheme  of  Redemp 
tion  through  Christ.  1  scorned  to  own  my 
self,  —  '  pulled  up"  as  1  was  with  the  '  vain 
•  •it'  of  my  own  innocence  and  dignity  —  a 
subjec?  of  Mich  humbling  overtures  of  a  God 
whom  I  had  learned  to  fear,  but  whom  I 
could  not  love.  How  wonderful  that,  after 
all  the  lucid  reasoning,  the  unanswerable  ar 


gument,  the  ^lowinu',  fer\  id  appeals  of  my 
gifted  pastor  had  been  heard  in  vain,  I  should 
ha\e  first  been  sent  in  humility  to  the  study 
of  the  Bible  through  the  influence  of  your  an 
gelic  sister  !  that  her  simple,  timid,  but  faith 
ful  rebuke  of  my  criminal  inditlerence,  should 
have  opened  ins  Cjea  to  the  necessity  ol  iriv- 


146  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ing  the  claims  of  religion  a  thorough,  candid, 
and  manly  investigation.' 

Constance,  although  not  aware  of  the  pre 
sence  of  George  Gregory,  here  faltered  in  her 
reading.  The  worthy  clergyman,  perceiving 
this,  kindly  took  the  letter  from  her  hand,  and 
continued 

'  Yes,  Charles,  it  was  Constance,  your  be 
loved  Constance — may  I  not  add,  my  Con 
stance,  who  has  been  the  instrument,  in  the 
hands  of  God,  of  bringing  me  to  Christ. 
With  what  wonder  do  I  now  look  back  upon 
the  indifference  with  which,  naturally  dispos 
ed  to  a  religious  life,  and  possessed  of  reli 
gious  sensibilities,  I  rested  in  a  scheme  which, 
while  it  arrogates  the  privilege  of  deciding 
upon  the  manner  in  which  God  shall  hold 
communication  with  his  creatures,  offers  no 
motive  to  love,  to  holiness  of  life,  to  Christian 
self-devotion. 

'  Tell  Constance  that  I  will  claim  the  privi 
lege,  she  has  at  length  accorded  to  me,  by 
writing  to  her  before  I  return.  I  hope  to  be 
with  you  in  a  few  days,  and  then — may  I  not 
now,  hope,  Charles  ? 

'  Is  the  poem  completed  ?     You  must  per- 


TH.  117 

niit  me,  as  !  live  ///    ///•  — 1    mean  no 

pun  upon  publishers — to  sir  it  through  the 
press.' 

The  cheerful  words  of  this  conclusion, 
sounded  strangely  in  that  chamber  of  death. 
Geoi  !:ad  heard  the  letter  with 

deep  emotion,  and  a  sigh  escaped  liim  as  the 
clen_fvm;m  t<M>k  his  seat.  Constance  turned, 
and  for  the  first  time  became  aware  of  his 
presence.  ( lently  disengaging  her  hand  from 
that  of  her  brother,  who  lay  with  his  eye 
lived  upon  the  face  of  his  kneeling  father, 
and  the  same  sweet  smile  still  upon  his  coun 
tenance,  she  approached  him  and  whisper 
ed— 

•M,.  ( i;-< -Lfory.  you  behold  a  sad  change 
since  this  morning.  This  disease  has  deceived 
us  all.  and  1  fear  my  brother  is  dying.' 

In  generous  sympathy   with   the    sorrows 
id  him.  the  unhappy  youth  forgot  himself 
and  his  own  feelings.        He  was  about  to  ad 
vance  to    the  bed-side,  when  the  voice  of  the 
iiiNalid,  much  changed,  arrested  him. 

'  So  —  father  —  Constance  —  Josephine  — 
I — I  am  dyinir.'  Instantly  they  were  at  his 
side.—' ())i,  sir,'  he  asked,  a*  the  cleiwman 


148  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

commended  his  departing  spirit  to  God,  in  a 
few  touching  words — '  God  bless  you.  Dear 
friends,  it  is  not  hard  to  die.' 

'  Shall  I  say  any  thing  to  aunt  Mary' — 
whispered  Constance,  as  she  gently  supported 
his  head. 

'  Tell  her — tell  her  that  I  have  sweet  peace 
— here  ;'  and  he  endeavored  to  lay  his  hand 
upon  his  heart ;  '  I  wished  that  she — my  death 
— but — come  nearer  Constance — my  lips 
sweet  peace.' 

And  in  another  moment  he  slept  in  Jesus. 

A  dreadful  pause  succeeded,  which  was  at 
length  broken  by  the  voice  of  the  clergy 
man — 

'  It  is  over.' 

The  stricken  group  started,  and  felt  all 
the  reality  of  death.  For  a  few  moments  the 
feelings  of  nature  prevailed,  and  they  lifted 
up  their  voices  together,  and  wept. 

(  Brother  !'  sobbed  Constance,  as  she  fas 
tened  her  lips  upon  his  high  pale  brow,  in 
a  kiss  in  which  was  concentrated  all  the 
tenderness  of  the  woman,  all  the  love  of 
the  sister,  and  all  the  grief  of  the  Christian 
mourner. 


DEATH.  149 

Josephine  laid  her  i  loss  pale 

than  that  of  the  corpse,  upon  her  bosom,  and 
wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

The  father  gently  raising  the  child  from  her 
position,  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bosom  of  his 
.  and  k':eh  down  to  pray. 

Few  and  simple,  but  oh  !  how  touching, 
were  the  words  of  his  prayer. 

•The  Lord  ira\e,  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away,  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.'  'In 
the  midst  of  life,  we  are  in  death  :  of  whom 
ma\  Mr  succor  but  of  thee,  0  Lord 

holy — ()  Clod  most  mighty — O  holy 
and  most  merciful  Savior.' 

And  then  lie  blessed  his  God  for  the  hope 
which  he  had  shed  around  that  dying  hour — 
for  the  Christian  life,  the  peaceful  death  of 
his  son.  He  asked  for  >tren-j;th  under  their 
bereavement — for  'jrace  to  profit  by  the  ex 
ample  of  the  departed  one — for  peace  and 
comfort  amid  future  trials. 


••ds  of  the 

burial   service   were    heard    in    the    secluded 
church     yard,    and     Kdwanl    Seaman     stood 
BCTS  at  the  (rrave. 


150  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

'  Earth  to  earth — ashes  to  ashes — dust  to 
dust.'  They  laid  the  mortal  remains  in  the 
fresh  damp  earth,  and  they  rounded  the  green 
sod  over  him,  and  strewed  the  summer  flowers 
upon  his  tomb  ;  but  with  their  grief  was  min 
gled  the  sweet  thought  of  a  Christian's  rest  in 
the  bosom  of  his  God ;  and  the  light  of  Chris 
tian  hope  made  their  tears  radiant  as  they 
fell. 


CHAPTER  xiv. 

MARY  GKKGOKY'S  LETTER — CONCLUSION. 

is  Indeed  too  short  to  be  wasted  in  brooding  over  disappoint 
ment  ;  a:iJ  t  am  conviiintl  that  there  is  niucli  mure  of  selfishness 
than  or  sensibility!  in  this  brooding.  Tin'  affections  arc  given  to 
us  for  activity  :mil  diilu*ion  ;  ttwy  arc  the  lire  to  warm,  not  to 
consuin  Miss  SXDOWICK — HOMK. 

Tin.  spring  returned,  and  time  had  sancti 
fied  and  hallowed  the  bereavement  which  the 
family  of  Mr.  Barmvell  had  sustained.  The 
imaire  of  Charles  dwelt  in  their  hearts,  and 
his  name  often  lingered  upon  their  lips,  but 
the  bitterness  of  grief  had  subsided  into  the 
(.•aim  sorrow  for  the  loved  and  sainted  dead. 

The  necessary  expense  attending  his  ill 
ness  and  death  had  drawn  heavily  upon  the 
\  income  of  Mr.  Barnwell,  and  for  the 
first  time,  want, '  as  an  armed  man,'  threat 
ened  him  with  the  removal  of  those  \\-\\-  com 
forts — nay,  indispensable  necessaries  of  life, 
which  had  hitherto  remained  to  him.  It  w.is 
then  that  the  daughter,  happy  in  an  opportu 
nity  of  testifying  her  love,  displayed  once 


152  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

more  the  beautiful  strength  and  self-devotion 
of  character,  in  engaging  in  an  employment 
from  which  too  many  well  educated  females, 
of  half  her  qualifications,  have  shrunk  with 
disgust. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Gregory  had  been  for 
many  months  without  a  governess.  Every 
means  had  been  used  to  secure  the  services  of 
one  properly  qualified,  but  without  success. 
Many,  indeed,  had  applied  for  the  situation ; 
but  the  requirements  of  the  parents,  anxious 
not  only  concerning  literary  qualifications  and 
accomplishments,  but  concerning  moral  and 
religious  character  also,  had  not  hitherto  been 

met. 

Their  minds  had  often  been  turned  towards 
Constance,  but  delicacy  had  restrained  them 
from  suggesting  their  wishes  to  her  or  to  her 
father. 

They  were  sincerely  gratified,  therefore, 
when,  at  his  daughter's  request,  which  he  had 
at  first  resisted,  Mr.  BarnwTell  proposed  her  as 
a  candidate  for  the  situation.  A  satisfactory 
arrangement  was  soon  made.  The  three 
daughters  of  Mr.  Gregory,  for  Mary  was  proud 
of  becoming  the  pupil  of  such  a  teacher,  came 


CONCLUSION.  153 

to  the  farm-house  to  receive  their  lessons  for 
a  few  hours  every  day.  The  anxious  wish  of 
Fanny  Briscome,  to  become  one  of  the  class  of 
'her  sweet  Mi<s  Barmvell,'  was  gratified,  and 
she  also  was  allowed  to  attend  with  her  young 
friends. 

Conscientiously  devoting  herself  to  her  pu 
pils,  Constance  had    the  happiness  of   wit 
nessing  their  rapid  improvement.     In  the  con 
sciousness  that  she  was  faithfully  discharging 
the  noblest  and  most  sacred  trust,  she  scorned 
no  labor  of  elementary  instruction,  and  became 
wearied  with  no  drudgery  of  repetition.  With 
a  sweetness  and  patience  which  won  the  af 
fections,  while  it  encouraged  and  sustained  the 
efforts  of  her  pupils,  she  sought  to  lead  them 
into  a  general  love  of  knowledge;  and   to 
render  the  path  of  literary  acquirement  inter 
esting.     Gifted  with  a  quick  insight  into  pe 
culiarities  of  mental  structure  and  intellectual 
tastes,  she  accommodated  the  studies  of  eaclf 
to  their  natural  tendencies.      While  she  se 
cured   a  willing  and  thorough  attention  to 
their  daily  lessons,  she  relieved  their  efforts, 
and  incited  them  to  further  exertion  by  the  in- 
14 


154  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

terest  which  her  conversation  imparted  to  the 
subject  of  their  studies. 

Thus  occupied,  another  year  rolled  by. 
Edward  Seaman,  having  completed  his  pre 
paratory  studies,  entered  upon  the  practice  of 
the  law.  His  character  and  family  connec 
tions  secured  him  at  once  a  highly  respectable 
and  profitable  business.  He  had  again  pro 
posed  himself,  and  his  suit  had  been  favorably 
heard.  He  was  now  earnestly  solicitous  that 
his  union  with  Constance  should  take  place 
without  delay.  A  day  for  the  marriage  was 
accordingly  fixed,  and  the  succeeding  autumn 
witnessed  the  consummation  of  their  mutual 
hopes. 

George  Gregory,  soon  after  the  funeral  of 
Charles,  had  entered  upon  his  professional 
studies,  and  by  the  virtuous  energy  of  high 
Christian  principle,  was  at  length  enabled  to 
recover  from  the  shock  which  his  feelings  had 
received.  The  trial  for  a  time  was  severe, 
but  the  triumph  was  no  less  complete.  He 
now  thought  of  Constance  as  of  a  bright  vision 
of  truth,  of  gentleness,  of  piety,  to  whom  he 
was  bound,  only  by  the  sacred  ties  of  Chris 
tian  friendship,  and  of  gratitude  for  the  sis- 


CONCLUSION.  166 

tt-rl\  regard  and  judicious  kindness  she  had 
exercised  towards  Mary. 

We  cannot  conclude  our  narrative  in  words 
more  fitting,  than  those  of  the  following  ex 
tract  from  a  letter  of  Mary,  to  her  brother  in 
New- York,  detailing  circumstances  interesting 
to  both. 

"  Miss  Sedgwick,  my  dear  George,  in  that 
dear  little  book,  which  you  have  just  sent  me, 
speaks  in  language  of  strong  reprehension,  of 
the  corrupting  eloquence  we  so  generally 
meet  with  in  novels  and  poetry,  to  persuade 
us  that  true  love  is  an  unconquerable  passion. 
You  are,  I  think,  equally  with  the  interesting 
Charles  Barclay,  a  living  witness  to  the  con 
trary.  I  know  that  you  once  loved  Constance 
Barnwell,  most  truly  and  deeply.  But  I  also 
know  that  by  the  manly  and  energetic  hon 
esty  of  your  nature,  you  have  been  enabled  to 
conquer  a  passion,  which  you  could  not  have 
continued  to  indulge  consistently  with  happi 
ness  and  virtue. 

"  I  am  truly  gratified  at  the  cheering  tone 

of  your  letters.     You  are  my  own  dear,  hope- 

t'ul  George  again.     Do  beware  of  too  great 

an  attachment  to  those  musty  law  books.     I 

14* 


156  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

tell  you,  positively,  that  I  will  not  suffer  even 
a  black  letter  folio,  graced  though  it  be  with 
all  the  lore,  of  Coke  upon  Lyttleton,  to  rival 
me  in  your  affections.  By  the  way,  I  shall 
be  jealous  of  that  Miss  Cooke,  so  different 
from,  and  yet  so  like  Constance,  as  you  de 
scribe  her.  Pray  read  me  this  riddle,  brother, 
for  it  passes  even  a  woman's  ingenuity. 

"  Shall  I  describe  the  marriage  ?  I  will,  in 
revenge  for  your  provoking  mystery  about 
Miss  Cooke.  The  ceremony  took  place  in 
our  sweet  little  church  on  Tuesday  morning 
last.  Mr.  Frederic  Seaton,  that  pale  young 
man  with  the  very  large  dark  eyes — Mr.  Sea 
man's  partner,  I  hear — was  the  groomsman, 
your  humble  servant  being  bridesmaid.  We 
proceeded  to  the  church  in  the  simple  rural 
style  which  I  recommended,  that  is,  we  walk 
ed  in  as  pretty  a  bridal  procession  as  was  ever 
seen.  When  we  entered,  we  found  it  half 
filled  with  our  mutual  friends,  and  a  few  of 
the  honest  country  people  living  around  us. 

"  Constance  never  appeared  half  so  lovely, 
nor  Mr.  Seaman  half  so  beautiful  or  so  noble. 
His  fine  manly  voice  trembled  a  little  with 
emotion  as  he  plighted  his  troth, — but  the 


<>N.  157 

t"M«.'.s  of  Constance  were  low,  sweet,  tremu 
lous,  vet  clear  and  silvery.  They  were  per 
fect  music.  I  saw  a  1e;ir  start  to  the  eye  of 
Mr.  r>;:inue!l  as  lie  presented  her  to  the  cler 
gyman,  and  I  wondered  what  it  meant  while 
I  almost  wej>i  in  sympathy.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  unhappy  I  am  at  the  prospect  of 
losing  our  interesting  teacher.  But  it  must 
be  so. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  that  Mr.  Seaman  had  com 
menced  building  a  country  seat  for  his  son, 
immediately  adjoining  the  farm-house  1  It  is 
arranged  that  the  newly  married  pair  shall 
spend  the  present  summer  at  the  farm,  and 
that  during  the  winter  season,  when  obliged 
to  live  in  town,  they  will  come  out  on  Satur 
day,  spend  the  Sunday  here,  and  return  on 
Mon 

"  Constance  is  determined  still  to  conduct 
the  education  of  Josephine,  in  conjunction 
with  her  father.  Dear  little  girl,  I  almost 
envy  her  happiness. 

Gentle  reader,  the  author  lays  down  his 
pen  in  the  humble  hope  that  the  simple  tale 


i58  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

he  has  told  is  not  without  its  moral.  The  fact 
of  female  influence,  for  good  or  for  evil,  is 
unquestionable.  Shall  we  not  then,  in  wo 
man's  education,  have  constant  and  anxious 
regard  to  this  fact  1  Shall  she  not  be  placed 
intellectually,  in  such  a  position  that  the  pow 
erful  agency  which  mind  excites  over  mind, 
shall  be  her  strongest  instrumentality  in  bring 
ing  back  the  reign  of  truth  and  principle,  of 
unselfish  devotion  to  the  cause  of  virtue,  of 
generous  self-forgetting,  self-sacrificing  ardor 
in  working  out  the  regeneration  of  society. 
Shall  she  not  be  fitted  morally,  and,  (under 
God),  religiously  fitted,  to  occupy  that  sphere, 
which,  without  her,  is  an  unlovely  waste,  sun 
less  and  barren,  the  domestic  circle,  the  world 
of  home  ? 

Again.  Take  away  religion  from  the 
sphere  of  woman's  enjoyment  and  destiny, 
and  what  do  you  leave  her  1 

'  Last  at  the  cross,  and  earliest  at  the  grave,' 

why  has  she  been  made  peculiarly  alive  to 
religious  impression,  if  she  is  to  be  kept  for 
ever  wandering  blindfold  upon  earth,  far  from 
heaven's  light  and  blessedness  ?  Oh,  remem- 


CONCLUSION.  159 

ber,  that  there  are  seasons  of  deep  endurance, 
through  which  the  most  favored  child  of  for 
tune  and  indulgence  may  be  called  to  pass, 
which  man  never  knows ;  that  there  are  wa 
ters  of  deep  affliction,  whose  waves  are  fire 
to  try  her  spirit — that  there  are  often  bitter 
dregs  of  sorrow  mingled  in  her  cup  of  life, 
even  though  that  cup  be  a  golden  one.     But, 
at  the  best,  what  is  woman  without  religion  ? 
Let  her  soul  go  out  over  all  earth's  pleasant* 
nesses,  its  pomps  and  its  witcheries ;  yet,  if 
her  originally  noble  nature  is  true  to  itself,  it 
will  hover  over  them  all,  like  Noah's  dove, 
with  weaiiid  wing,  seeking  true  rest  and  find 
ing  none,  and  looking  anxiously  for  shelter  to 
the  ark  of  God.     Her  tendencies  are  heaven 
ward — let  us  beware  how  we  bind  her  to 
earth.     The  plumage  of  the  bird  of  Paradise 
may  be  beautiful  and  lustrous  in  the  desert, 
but  it  is  only  when  restored  to  its  native  bow 
ers,  that  we  are  made  glad  with  the  pure  lit'r 
and  joyousness  that  are  in  its  heart,  and  are 
enchanted  with  its  richest  hues.     Without  re 
ligion,  earth  is  but  a  desert  to  us  all,  though 
sin's  deceitful  mirage  may  show  it  in  the  dis 
tance  like  an  enchanted    Armida  palace,  a 


160  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

clime  as  green  and  bright  as  old  Arcady  of 
the  poets,  a  perfect  Atlantis,  rising  beautiful 
upon  the  waves  of  time.  Without  religion, 
it  is  a  desert  indeed  for  woman,  wherein  the 
hot  sands  wither  her  best  affections,  and  where 
she  sighs  evermore  for  '  the  green  pastures ' 
and  '  the  still  waters.' 


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